


Secrets to a Good Life

by erebones



Series: secrets to a good life [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Chronic Illness, Everyone is Queer, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, HIV, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Themes, Leukemia, M/M, Matchmaking, Mutual Pining, Nobody Dies, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 216,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5170274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver is already in a foul mood when he walks into <em>Blackwall and Stroud Artisan Woodworkers, Inc.</em>, and the sight that awaits him does little to appease it: the shop is fucking <em>swamped</em>.</p><p>A modern AU in which Carver is a gay carpenter with too many things on his plate, including: a matchmaking mother, a twin sister battling leukemia, a job at an artisan carpentry studio, meddling best friends, and fencing classes on the weekends. There's no way he has time for a boyfriend in the middle of all that, even one as cute as Felix Alexius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carver is grumpy, and Felix is adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when someone sends me an otp ask on tumblr and I start wondering what a modern AU!feVer would look like. I will do my hardest to treat the various themes within with respect, but if I ever stumble, PLEASE point it out so I can fix it! My family has been affected by cancer quite a lot recently, but I don't have a lot of up-close-and-personal experience with it or with HIV, and research can only take me so far. Contrary to what the tags may have you believe, no one dies in this fic. It's promising to be a rather drawn-out story and I'm experimenting with a new writing style, so feel free to offer feedback or just quietly read and enjoy. See individual chapter notes for more in-depth trigger warnings et cetera.
> 
> warnings for this chapter: chemo and nausea mention, casual biphobia between friends.

Carver is already in a foul mood when he walks into _Blackwall and Stroud Artisan Woodworkers, Inc._ , and the sight that awaits him does little to appease it: the ’shop is fucking _swamped_. Jean is consumed in a free demo, muttering clipped explanations to the little knot of customers breathing down his neck. On the other side of the sales floor, a flock of twittering older ladies dog Thom like a gaggle of overdressed geese as he navigates their endless questions with a harried expression. Every other inch of the floor is crowded, bustling with people browsing hopefully for the perfect Christmas gift.

Merrill, for all her perpetual cheer, is looking rather bedraggled as she mans the till bravely, her festive woolen elf-ears drooping sadly in the heat. Her wide green eyes widen further as Carver wedges himself behind the counter and ducks down to rummage for his nametag.

“You’re here! Thank goodness, I haven’t had a break since eight this morning. Can you believe you crazy it is? How’s Bethy?”

“Bethy’s fine,” he says automatically, because it’s easier than reminding Merrill that Bethy is _never_ fine after chemo. Bless her enormous heart, but she has enough to worry about right now without Carver dumping his troubles on her. “Mum’s keeping an eye on her. I’ve got the till for a minute, yeah? Go sit down, grab some tea or something.” He tracks down his nametag and pins in awkwardly to his flannel shirt before pushing Merrill gently out into the sea of shoppers. They really need to hire more help for the holiday season. But for now, he bares his teeth in a parody of welcome and takes the next customer in line before Merrill can ask any more uncomfortable questions.

He didn’t want to come in today at all, honestly. Most of the custom holiday work has been done, and now they’re just fielding what Jean calls “low-impact customers”—the kind who aren’t about to spring for a hand-beveled side table with glass inlay, but who want the faux artistry of pre-made, mass-produced trinkets like mirror frames and miniature chairs for the kiddies. Carver isn’t made for retail. He hates the rare occasions when he has to handle money and make small talk with beady-eyed customers, and would much rather escape to the woodshop, where he can bury his worries in the hum of the belt sander and the pervasive earthiness of sawdust and fresh-cut wood. But, unfortunately, it’s the season of giving, which means it’s the season of buying and bargaining and dealing with short-sighted idiots when he would much rather stay at home and take care of his sister.

The afternoon passes in a sweaty, irritable rush. His hand hovers constantly over his pocket, waiting for a phone call from his mother, but nothing comes, and he tries to put it out of his mind. Still, he’s on tenterhooks when the last few customers finally make a show of meandering out, ready to make a break for the back room as soon as he can. Which is why when the door opens and someone _else_ steps in, he’s about ready to stab something.

Jean is in the back, lucky sod, and Thom is making awkward noises of agreement at a short, pretty woman who’s cradling a massive wooden bowl under one arm, so Carver pastes on his best approximation of a smile and folds his arms across his chest in what he hopes says _I’m here to help you as long as you keep it brief_. “Hello, welcome to Blackwall and Stroud’s. Are you looking for anything in particular today?”

“Hello,” the man says quietly, smiling. It’s a quiet smile—everything about him is quiet, really, sort of subdued and nonthreatening, and a notch of tension unwinds at the back of Carver’s neck. The man puts his hands in his pockets—smart navy jeans cut close to his hips and calves, and oh, _now_ Carver’s paying attention—and glances around the ’shop with the distracted air of someone trying to take in everything at once. “I was wondering if you do custom work.”

“Commissions for the holiday season are closed—” Carver begins automatically, but the man shakes his head patiently.

“Not a Christmas gift, if you can believe it. A friend of mine—my best friend, actually, he had the misfortune of being born in mid-January.”

“Poor sod,” Carver says without thinking, and the man’s warm, honey-brown face creases in a smile.

“Exactly. Always gets the short end of the stick. Anyway, he just moved into a new place and he’s a bit short on furniture, so I was hoping to commission a bookshelf.”

Carver blinks. “A bookshelf.”

The man raises an eyebrow, tucking his chin into the heavy woolen folds of the crimson scarf wrapped around his neck. “Do you not do bookshelves, then?”

“Oh, we do bookshelves,” Carver stammers, “I just meant, a bookshelf doesn’t seem, er, a high-priority kind of thing for a new house. But you would know better than me.”

The man actually laughs, as if Carver has made a clever joke, and he finds himself smiling hesitantly back. “If you knew Dorian, you would know that bookshelves are the _highest_ priority, actually. He’s a professor, you see, always stockpiling new tomes to foist on his unsuspecting underclassmen. I’m just here to enable him.”

Friend, or boyfriend, Carver wonders. He’s always had terribly gaydar, ironically, but this guy looks like he could go either way. Short hair, stubbled jaw, the tan double-breasted jacket all scream _heterosexual_ , but the scarf and the jeans… Carver reigns himself in. “We have some bookshelves already made,” he offers, “but they can be adjusted to your specifications. Or we can make something up from scratch—you said mid-January? That should be plenty of time, depending on what you want. Follow me, I can show you what we’ve got in stock.”

He beams, peers closer at the nametag hanging askew from his shirt. “Thank you, ah… Carver?”

“That’s me,” Carver agrees, scooting out from behind the counter as gracefully as he can, which isn’t very. He’s too tall and too broad for the little space that fits Merrill like a roomy glove, and even though he ducks to avoid the enormous mounted bear head that glares judgmentally out from over the till—bloody Thom and his bloody _hobbies_ —he still manages to stub his toe and trip on his way out, practically into the man’s arms. _Smooth, Carver. Marian would laugh herself sick._

“I’m Felix,” the man says, as if he didn’t just save Carver from plummeting to his death on the floor of his own workplace. “And thanks for your help, I know you’re probably insanely busy with Christmas and everything.”

Carver leads the way to the back of the display floor, thinking very hard about his awful day and trying very hard not to say anything about it. “It’s been… challenging,” he says at last, in a way he hopes is tactful. Merrill is always better at sweet-talking the customers than he is, though he’s not sure how. Her social aptitude isn’t much better than his. “Be grateful you didn’t come in twenty minutes earlier, I might have bitten your head off.”

“Then I’m very grateful,” Felix laughs. He nods to Thom as they pass—do they know each other, or is he just being polite?—and then they’re at the back, where all the low-demand product goes: bigger pieces of furniture like tables and dresser-drawers, bedframes, and, naturally, bookshelves. There are only two on display at the moment, neither of them Carver’s. He double-checks the price tags stuck to the sides with tape.

“These are Stroud’s work,” Carver says, running a hand idly along one shelf. It comes away clean—so Merrill had time to dust down everything before the ’shop opened, at least. “I don’t know what size you’re looking for, but Stroud tends to work big. He prefers harder woods like oak, and then he stains the shit out of them after. Um.” _Way to undersell your boss, Carv. Jeez._

“Harder wood, huh?” Felix says, so straight-faced it’s hard to tell if he’s aware of the double entendre. Felix turns his head away briefly, but not before Carver sees the soft edge of a smile turning up his mouth. He coughs in studious agreement.

“As hard as possible. Jean’s just skilled that way.” He smiles with bland innocence when Felix turns to look at him, wide-eyed. “He’s in the back if you’d like to discuss potential custom work.”

“I, um,” Felix says, and for the first time since he entered the ’shop he’s not perfectly poised. “Actually—it’s nice, it’s lovely, but… I was thinking of something a little more… delicate. Like…” He turns, swiveling in place on the heels of his smart brown oxfords, and gives a little crow of success. “Like this!”

Carver looks to where he’s pointing, and feels a sudden bubble of pleasure welling up to burst softly in the middle of his chest. Felix’s untrained eyes have landed on a little teakwood roll-top desk, sized for a child or a dainty woman, with pretty fluted legs and a subtle ash-brown finish that enhances the natural color of the wood. Carver had built it on a whim a few months back, taking time out of his normal commission hours to bring it to life. It’s had a few interested buyers since it’s been on the floor, but Carver has—perhaps subconsciously—nudged them away from it to other offerings. He’d had Bethany in mind while he built it, and he isn’t quite ready to give it up to someone undeserving.

Felix is running his hands along the scrollwork at the top, an intricate Celtic design that Carver sweated over for hours with a chisel, too proud to reach for power tools in his search for the perfect by-hand aesthetic. “This is lovely. Who made this?”

“Er, I did.”

He might be blushing, now, as Felix gawps at him over his shoulder. “Truly? This is exquisite. If I thought it would fit me I would buy it myself, but it deserves someone who could really use it.”

Somehow, the protective surge that usually arises by now has yet to show its face. Traitor. “Maybe a sister, then? Your mum?”

Some of the shine of Felix’s smile wears away. “Only child,” he says simply, and fails to mention his mother in a way that’s glaringly obvious and instantly recognizable. It’s the same awful gap when Carver talks about his own family. “But still,” he adds before Carver can divert the conversation, “this style is wonderful. If you have the time, I would love to see what magic you might work with a bookshelf.”

Honestly, Carver’s never made a bookshelf in his life—he leaves that dull, stodgy sort of home staple to Stroud’s old-fashioned practicality. But for Felix, he’s suddenly eager to try. “I’d be happy to. I’ll just pencil you in for a consultation and we can get started.”

He leads the way back to the till, still buzzing with the energy of Felix’s blatant interest in his work. This time Blackwall has just bidden farewell to their petite, bowl-toting customer, and when he turns toward them his forked beard parts in a grin—or a slight smile, which is essentially the same thing—and he sticks out his hand for Felix to shake. Which he does. Vigorously.

“Hello, young Alexius. Can’t say I was expecting to see you again so soon.”

“Thankfully under better circumstances this time,” Felix answers cheerfully. “I thought I recognized the name on the sign, but I didn’t realize it was the same person. Good to see you looking so well.”

“And you. Came around to get something for the holidays?”

“A friend’s birthday, actually. I’m commissioning Carver here for some custom work.”

Blackwall nods sagely, not at all offended to be passed over. “You won’t regret it. Carver’s an excellent carpenter. Best I’ve ever trained.”

Carver coughs and looks away, burning under his collar. He hates when people pay him compliments—he never knows what to do with his hands. “I’ll go set up the paperwork,” he says and walks off, hoping he isn’t being rude. It’s hard for him to tell sometimes. Marian says he’s “abrasive,” whatever that means, but they don’t pay him to butter up the customers, that’s what Merrill’s for. He hoists himself up over the counter to snag a commission form—no way he’s trying to wedge himself back in there again, not with Felix and Blackwall standing right over there—and drops back down, scribbling down the preliminaries: _bookshelf, artist C. Hawke, commissioner Felix… Alexius_? The name sounds almost familiar. Maybe he can ask Blackwall once Felix leaves.

There’s a subtle wash of tasteful cologne, something expensive he doesn’t recognize, and Felix props his elbow against the counter to peer at the form. “What do you need from me?”

“Just your contact info and the best time to reach you. I’ll give you my card. And if you have any ideas of design or wood type, put them here.” He taps the correct box with the pen before handing it over. Felix’s fingers brush his for an instant, smooth and tapered with perfectly buffed oval nails. _Straight men don’t get manicures, right_? Carver never has, but he’s never been the effeminate type. More… burly lumberjack queer (Bethy’s words, not his). Add it to the list of things to obsess over.

“I don’t know much about this sort of thing,” Felix is saying, scribbling words at random in the _additional_ _details_ section, “so my apologies if this fails to make any sense whatsoever.”

“It’s all right. I’ll work up some sketches and we’ll go from there.” Carver flips through the consultation paperwork, jammed in a crinkled mess onto a clipboard that’s on its last legs. Slots are jam-packed all the way up to December 20th, and then peter out in the week that Stroud has designated “final touches only” through Christmas Eve. There’s one slot between then and now, December 8th. Carver racks his brain, but he’s pretty sure Bethy doesn’t have a doctor’s appointment that day.

“I can fit you in on the eighth at the earliest,” he says, sliding the clipboard over. “Does three o’clock work?”

“Here?”

“Anywhere, really,” Carver says with a shrug. “That’s a studio day for me, so I’m free to come and go as I please.”

Felix pulls out his phone, a sleek black thing with elegant silver accents and a perfectly-applied screen protector, and frowns at it. “D’you know Harold’s Rest Café, around the corner? Between here and the hospital?”

“Yeah, I know it. My sister works there, I stop by every morning for a cuppa.”

“Brilliant! So, three at Harold’s?” He’s already typing it into his phone, which Carver supposes means it’s decided.

“Great. Um, here’s my card.” He works it out of his pocket and passes it over. He’s suddenly relieved he had Bethy redesign it: textured off-white card stock with _Carver Hawke, artisan woodworker, Blackwall and Stroud, Inc._ printed in neat block lettering, and his email, mobile, and the ’shop’s address on the bottom. Felix examines it briefly, dark eyes intent, and digs into his back pocket for his wallet.

“Don’t want to lose it,” he says with a smile, and he sticks out his hand. Carver takes it. The palm is smooth and soft, a little dewy as if freshly moisturized, and Felix’s grip is firm against the calluses and scars that litter Carver’s hand. And then they part, and Carver tries very hard not to curl his fingers into his palm to feel the lingering heat.

“Nice doing business with you,” he says, mostly on autopilot. “See you on the eighth.”

The ’shop door closes behind Felix in a swirl of wet, stinging winter air, and the room seems suddenly bereft of life. Carver sticks his hands in his pockets and looks around. Blackwall is studiously _not_ watching him, busying himself with a broom and a dustpan on the other side of the floor. Carver clears his throat.

“How d’you know him, then?”

“Hmm? Oh, Felix? We were in group therapy together after my surgery. His da’s the big-shot surgeon wotsit, Gereon Alexius. The fellow who performed open heart surgery on the Prime Minister and saved his life.”

Carver’s stomach sinks a little. So. Filthy rich, famous parent, probably living off daddy’s income. Doesn’t matter if the guy’s gay, straight, or only has sex on the night of every third full moon, he is _so_ out of Carver’s league. And Carver has his phone number. Bugger.

“Huh,” is all he has time to say before Merrill pops back in, looking much perkier than before, and Carver happily cedes the till to her. A part of him itches to pop out to the café and grab a pick-me-up, but knowing that Bethany won’t be behind the counter with her effervescent smile puts the kibosh on that plan, so instead he slinks back to the workroom and rustles up some drafting paper. Might as well keep busy.

He’s just sat down and started a few sweeping, incoherent lines with a stub of pencil when the door cracks open and someone pokes their head in. For a minute he thinks it’s Felix back with some idea or other, and he jumps a little in his seat, but it’s only Fenris: dour as usual, a camera bag slung over one shoulder, all in black from his leather combat boots to the beanie pulled low over his bleached hair—and carrying two paper takeout cups from Varric’s. Thank you Jesus.

“You’re the best,” Carver says fervently, accepting one of the cups. It’s a medium, but his hands still dwarf it, and he cradles it close to his nose to inhale the aromatic steam: espresso and cocoa and cloves. Heaven.

“You’re easy to please,” Fenris grunts back. He makes himself comfortable on the edge of the worktable, feet swinging idly as he cups his own red eye between gloved hands. “What are you working on? Commission? I thought you weren’t taking any new ones ’til after the holidays.”

“This isn’t a holiday commission,” Carver says for what feels like the tenth time. “Fen, do straight men get manicures?”

Nonplussed at the lack of segue, Fenris sips his coffee thoughtfully. “Famous ones do, I think. Movie stars, et cetera. Don’t know why you’re asking _me_ —shouldn’t you be asking a heterosexual? Such as Blackwall, for instance?”

“You’re halvsies,” Carver says weakly.

Fenris snorts, but doesn’t take offense. “That’s not how it works, Hawke, and you know it. And that still doesn’t answer my question: why ask _me_?”

“Because you _know_ these things. Your gaydar is fucking incredible, mine is bollocks, and I’m not calling up Marian to ask because she’d only laugh in my face and tell me to Google it.” Carver scowls at the drafting paper and crumples it into a ball. It had been a bad start anyway.

Fenris sighs at his dramatics. “Why the sudden interest in the grooming habits of straight men? Can it be that the sexual preferences of an attractive male around your age rests upon the weighty shoulders of, God forbid, a _manicure_?”

“There was a scarf, too,” Carver shoots back defensively. “A very nice red one. It was probably Burberry.”

“Hmm. Potential. Cologne?”

“Sandalwood and vanilla. And, I dunno, evergreen or some shit.”

“Surprisingly in-depth analysis, for you. I’m sorry to say it, Carver, but without a proper look I can’t give you anything better than ‘possibly deeply closeted queer’.”

“Vague,” Carver grumps.

“Vague details get vague results. If only I’d been a few minutes earlier.” Fenris sighs again, dramatically lovelorn, and Carver contemplates stabbing him with the half-inch of pencil he’s got left. “If only Cole had not been the only one behind the counter, and therefore saw fit to critique everyone’s outfit choices like some sort of sartorial medium and taking twice as long to make my drink…”

“Yeah, all right, that’s enough. Not like it matters anyway, he’s sodding rich or something.”

“Really?”

“He’s commissioning a bookshelf for a friend’s new apartment and didn’t even ask for a quote. You tell me.”

Fenris pretends to consider this. “Sodding rich.”

“Yeah. Said so.”

“You never know. He could be the ‘nice’ type of rich.”

“Doesn’t matter if he feeds thirty homeless people a day with bread he bakes himself, that just makes him even _more_ out of my league.”

“Listen,” Fen says before Carver can become too embroiled in his own thoughts, “you need to have The Talk with your mother again.”

“Again? God dammit, what did she say this time?”

“Hmmm... something about grandchildren, I think. And she’s worried about you being alone forever.”

“Ugh, _Mum_. As if she didn’t have a little gaggle of ducklings to fawn over already.”

“I think she was hoping more along the lines of miniature humans she can buy onesies and rattles for, not...” He curls one wrist in the air in a sort of _God-only-knows_ gesture. “Not whatever peculiar menagerie of friends and acquaintances your family has accumulated.”

“Well she’ll have to make do. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with all my male friends. Or liable to marry them. Although…” He gives Fenris a saccharine smile. “Fen, sweetie, you’ve been my best friend for as long as I’ve known you—”

“Shut up, Hawke,” Fenris growls.

“—and I can’t imagine my life without you.”

“ _Hawke_.”

“Ugh, fine. You’re no fun.” Carver spreads out a new sheet of paper and begins sketching, energized by the irritable banter that passes for mushy feel-good conversation between them. “The point is moot, anyway. I have my job and I have Bethy. That doesn’t leave much time for dating, or marrying, or popping out kids. Best of three. Whatever.”

Fenris makes a sound deep in his throat. “Bethany is not your sole responsibility.”

“She’s not a _responsibility_ , period. She’s my sister.”

“Carver…”

“Nope. Done. Anything else you need? I’m busy.”

“So I see.”

He knows he’s upset him, but he can’t bring himself to care. Fen knows better. Bethy is the one thing Carver will not be budged on.

“I’ll leave you, then. Try to remember to eat something between now and midnight, won’t you?” Fen hops off the table and scoops up his paper cup. For a moment his hand rests on Carver’s shoulder, warm and steadying, and then he slips from the room like a shadow, leaving Carver to his paper and his thoughts.

He works on the sketches for Felix another hour or so and then Stroud breaks him out of his groove to get help on the table saw. It’s a welcome break from the fiddly detail-work, and by the end of it he’s a bit sweaty and covered in a fine layer of sawdust, and he’s feeling more like himself. Enough like himself to send a quick text to Fenris, _sorry for going off on you, thanks for the coffee_ , before he packs up for the evening. His phone buzzes in his pocket as he’s letting himself out into the cold November evening— _no problem. to both. game Friday?_ He fires back an affirmative, absurdly grateful for Fenris’ understanding.

The drive is uneventful, but it’s still late when he slips into his mother’s house with help from the spare key. The lights are low and the place is quiet, and Bethy is out of bed and nibbling on dry toast at the kitchen table when he comes in. She beams at him from under her slouchy beanie and he sprawls out opposite her, letting his bare feet nudge hers under the table.

“How was work?” she asks.

“Fine. Crazy. Glad it’s over.” He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t mention the new commission. He tries to envision describing Felix to her and all possible permutations of that conversation end in horrible embarrassment in his mind. “How are you feeling?”

“Not so bad. Slept for ages, and now I’m antsy.” She blinks limpid eyes at him, and he knows what she’s about to say, but he lets her say it anyway. “Play something with me?”

His eyes drift to the clock on the microwave. “Half an hour, okay? I’m beat.”

“You’re _coddling_. Stop it.” She kicks his ankle, hard, and he bites back a wince. “Forty-five minutes?”

“Fine. Finish your toast first. I’m going to take a shower, you can get it set up, okay?”

“Deal.”

He looks in on his mum on his way to the bathroom—her door is left ajar, the bedside lamp still on, but she’s passed out with her head propped awkwardly on the pillows, a book open on her chest. He wants to leave her to sleep, God knows she needs it, but he imagines the stiff neck she’ll get tomorrow and slips inside. His feet find the creaky board on purpose, so she’s already blinking awake when he puts a hand on her arm.

“Hey, Mum.”

“Hello, sweetheart.” She puts the book aside and reaches for him, and he lets her kiss his forehead. “Is Bethany still up?”

“Yeah. Told her I’d play with her a bit until she tires out. I’m going to shower, do you need anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I’ll just go say goodnight to her.”

She pulls herself out of bed, rumpled and comfortable-looking in her nightgown and Da’s old Arsenal sweatshirt, her soft silver hair coming askew from its loose bun. Carver hugs her, because he can, and because he misses the smell of her now that he’s living on his own—like beeswax and menthol and laundry softener. “How is she?” he asks, craning his neck down to speak into her cloud-soft hair.

“Oh, the usual. Spent a few hours throwing up, and then slept it off. I wish we could get her sleep schedule back to some semblance of normal, but,” she sighs heavily, “if she’s cheerful and wide awake, I’ll take it over miserable and confined to her bed.”

“There has to be a better medication they can prescribe.”

“She barely takes what she has now. Doesn’t like horse pills, she says. Stubborn girl.” She shakes her head and steps away, eyes strained but lit with fondness. “Too much like her father. Ah, well. At least she gets a week’s break until the next session.” She pats his arm and brushes sawdust from the front of her shirt. “Go shower, love. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes, Mum.” He kisses her smooth cheek and pads to the bathroom.

Freshly washed and dressed in some worn-out jeans and a jumper he keeps in his old bedroom, Carver slumps down to the living room and finds Bethy on the couch with the controller in her pale, bony hands, running circles around a Dwarven Centurion Master. Her character’s hands are wreathed in fire and electricity, and she turns around occasionally to blast the thing before scurrying away from its powered steam attacks. He throws himself on the couch and puts his head in her lap.

“Not feeling multiplayer?”

“Sorry. You took too long in the shower. Hah! Take that, you big metal bastard.” With a great deal of clanking and hissing, the Centurion collapses, and Bethany runs over to loot it. Carver whistles under his breath.

“Damn, that’s a lot of gold.”

“Masters always have the best shit. Aha, that’s what I was looking for.” A key disappears from the Centurion’s inventory, and Carver lets his eyes slide shut. Just for a minute.

* * *

“Fucking cold,” Felix mutters into his scarf for the tenth time as he jiggles his brand-new spare key in the lock of Dorian’s apartment. Ice licks at his heels and his fingers are stiff when he finally shoulders it open and tumbles inside, bringing a swathe of bitter late-November air behind him. He immediately trips over a crate of books and catches himself on the wall with a grunt. “Dorian! Move your fucking garbage before I put it out on the kerb!”

There’s a tumble of feet down the narrow staircase—servant’s stairs, probably, tucked away at the back end of this sprawling mansion—and Cullen bursts into the entryway, stripped to a dust-smeared vest and smelling strongly of Pinesol. “Sorry, I meant to move that.”

“Oh, hey Cull. How goes it?”

“Going,” Cullen says, scooping up the crate like it’s full of cotton fluff and propping it against his hip. “How was your errand?”

Felix peers around Cullen’s shoulder as if expecting Dorian to pop up like a poltergeist. “Where is he?”

“Other side of the house, painting. You’re safe.”

“Oh, good. It went very well. Blackwall was busy, but someone else helped me.” He hesitates, and Cullen must pick up on the tenor of the silence, because his brows go up and a little smile tugs on the scar that bisects his upper lip.

“Someone else, hey?”

“Er, yeah. Younger fellow, name of Carver something. Hawk, I think? Some sort of bird, at any rate. He’s got a fantastically detailed, elegant style, I know Dorian’s going to love it.”

“A wood-carver named Carver?”

“Yes, I know, hilarious. Continuing in that vein, he’s likely straight as a board.” Felix fishes the business card out of his wallet and hands it over. “He’s the ruggedly masculine heterosexual type, so don’t go getting any ideas.”

Cullen takes the slip of cardstock and laughs aloud. “I thought that name sounded familiar. I went to school with his cousin, Shani Amel. His older sister still tries to get me to come out for drinks now and again, but that gang is a little, er, rambunctious for my tastes.”

Felix stares at the business card, trying to put together “rambunctious” and “grumpy carpenter” without much success. “By rambunctious do you mean, er, _young_?”

“That too, I suppose,” Cullen says cheerfully, with the air of a man who has accepted his tendency to behave like an old geezer when faced with such terrors as _socializing_. “Marian was always a bit flamboyant.”

“I think you might be thinking of a different Hawke. Carver is… well. Not that.”

“I imagine he wouldn’t be. His twin sister, Bethany, was diagnosed with leukemia two years ago. From what Shani tells me, it’s been an uphill battle.”

“Oh.” The pleasant fizzing sensation in his belly, the remnants of a delightful quarter-hour spent in the company of an attractive person, suddenly goes flat. “I’m sorry to hear that. He did seem… stressed. I assumed it was the pressures of the holiday season, but.”

Cullen shrugs, compassion warring with acceptance on his handsome face. “I don’t know the details, obviously. I don’t know the family very well.”

“Well, it’s hardly my business, anyway,” Felix says, and firmly attempts to put it out of his mind. To put Carver Hawke out of his mind. An unlikely prospect, considering he’ll be meeting with him in just a couple of days. “Dorian’s off painting, you said?”

“Dining room, last I looked. I’m sure he’d be happy for a break.”

As if on cue, Dorian’s voice rings faintly through the old, papered walls: “Fee! That you?”

“Yeah!” Felix shouts back. “I’ve come to rescue you!”

“My hero,” comes the muffled reply, and Felix shares a commiserating glance with Cullen.

“Join us for a cuppa?”

“Rather have a pint,” Cullen admits, “but tea will do. I’ll just get rid of this and be right back.” Stooping to avoid clocking his head on the low-slung lintel, he turns and navigates his way back up the rickety stairs. Felix catches a sneeze in the crook of his elbow and forges onward into the depths of the house.

It’s a bit of a sprawling monster: an early Victorian mansion that has since been divided in twos and threes until its most recent renovation. The result is two apartments jackknifed together in an awkward assemblage of twisting hallways and doors that lead nowhere. The owner is a bit of a recluse, but he’s kept the place in fairly good condition. All the windows are new, the roof has been replaced, and there’s updated plumbing and central air throughout the entire building. However, this half of the house has sat empty for a very long while, and it shows. The walls are papered in antique shades that have faded with time, giving the house a grim, moldering sort of look, and the floors underfoot are a jigsaw puzzle of ripped-up tile and different kinds of hardwood. There’s almost no furniture—Dorian’s previous place was practically a closet in comparison, and he’d been living mostly off of books and tea while he worked to get his tenure at the university—and the rooms are big and square with high ceilings wreathed in ornate cornices and old fireplaces full of dust and spiders.

The floors creak underfoot as Felix winds his way to the more civilized areas: a sitting-room with an attached greenhouse looking out over the south side of the house, already swept and dusted and full of boxes waiting to be unpacked; a little half-bath with a sliding door and a fantastic art deco theme that Dorian declared a _must_ - _keep_ ; a long, polished staircase already gleaming and smelling of wood-stain, recovering from a DIY overhaul courtesy of clan Rutherford; and, thankfully, a fully-equipped and working laundry offset from the kitchen, with tiny bottle-green tiles on the floor and an antique wringer that Dorian had unearthed from the attic and promptly mounted on the wall in a fit of decorative inspiration. The door to the kitchen is slightly ajar, and faint strains of music and the smell of paint drift through it. Felix nudges it carefully open with his toe, noting the blue tape lining the doorframe, and pokes his head inside.

“Dorian?”

He doesn’t see him at first—the kitchen is empty and dazzlingly clean, one of the few complete overhauls Cullen had been persuaded to spring for. The hardwood floor is finished and gleaming, the windows and cupboards are all recently replaced, and a solid oak bar squats grandly in the center of everything, marble-topped and strewn with paint pans, brushes, and all manner of cleaning detritus. Felix steps in more fully and pads toward the adjoining dining room, seeing only gleaming white walls and an iPhone dock spitting out something that sounds suspiciously like Celine Dion. “Dorian? You in here?”

“Ah! Finally.” Dorian pops up from around the corner, his hair askew and a streak of white paint splashed garishly on his dusky cheek. He scrambles for his phone and turns the volume off before putting his brush aside and coming to greet him properly. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“I can’t say the same,” Felix says, grinning as he backs away from Dorian’s open-armed advance. “Get out of here, idiot, this is a new coat.”

“So I see,” Dorian purrs, but he relents and goes to wash his hands. Paint comes off in an off-white stream as he scrubs at his arms, humming something under his breath. He’s far removed from the elegant, swoon-worthy Doctor Pavus Felix sees so often during the week, dressed in ragged jeans barely held up with a strip of leather belt—both belonging to Cullen, he has no doubt—and a black tee with _Minrathous U_ printed on the front, but his devilish charm doesn’t come off in the wash. “Where’ve you been all my life? I was expecting you an hour ago.”

“Took longer at the pharmacy than I thought.” He unwinds his scarf and drapes it and his coat on the back of one of the bar stools, then starts pushing up his sleeves. “I’ve been instructed by your live-in houseboy that you need to take a break.”

“My houseboy, hmm? What a lovely thought, thank you for that.”

“Ugh, Dorian, I do _not_ need any more information about your sex life. I have enough as it is.”

“What about our sex life?” Cullen asks, materializing with such perfect timing that Felix wishes he’d had his phone out to snap a photo of Dorian’s mortified expression. Then Cassandra appears on his heels with a disgusted noise, and Dorian claps his hands.

“Yes! Right! Who wants tea?”

Felix appoints himself tea-maker, since everyone else is covered in paint and dust. Soon the plug-in kettle is spitting steam and he digs a packet of biscuits from the pantry, which is fully stocked with non-perishables thanks to Cullen’s sister. They sit around the island, Cullen leaning on the opposite side with his elbows deep in layers of newspaper, and with the smell of earl grey heavy in the air and a last bright stripe of late-afternoon light streaming through the windowpanes, it’s very homey and serene.

“What’s left on the docket for today?” Felix asks, addressing Dorian. His detail-oriented friend has a ten-page spreadsheet dedicated to overhauling the apartment, and he’s fairly sure Dorian has it all memorized. At the very least, he has _today_ memorized, because he answers right away:

“Finish painting the dining room and sanding the bedroom floor, and hopefully get a head start on spackling in the master bathroom for tomorrow.”

“Where would you like me?”

“Could you cut the second layer while I assess the staircase? I think we’re going to have to add a new banister to the contractor’s list. No offense to Branson’s handyman skills, but it’s still a bit, er, wobbly.”

“That man is a saint if he accepts one more addendum,” Cassandra remarks.

“Bull is reasonable,” Dorian answers defensively. “He’s been a complete angel so far, a little banister is hardly worth a footnote on the contract. Cullen, thoughts?”

“I can give him a ring later,” Cullen replies. He’s being rather agreeable to the constant, frantic flow of ideas swirling about Dorian like a cloud, and Felix is silently reassured for the tenth or twentieth time that, against all odds, Cullen may actually survive moving in with his boyfriend of six years. “I’m almost done with the floor, and then I can seal it before we go home tonight. Cass, d’you want to go ahead with the spackling?”

“Aye, aye,” she says with a tip of her chin and a small, amused smile. “Just give a shout if you need help sweeping up all that sawdust.”

Tea finished, they disperse to their separate corners of the house, Felix taking care to put his jacket and scarf well away from any painting going on. Underneath he’s got on a ratty old flannel, already liberally speckled with paint and plaster, and he rolls the sleeves up fastidiously before hunting down a fresh brush and a paint pot.

It’s late by the time Dorian declares their work complete, and they’re all moving a bit stiffly as they gather their things and emerge one by one onto the front stoop. The night is an odd one, dark and cold but still muted by the soft wet of late autumn. Mist rises from the wet pavement and wreathes the streetlamps in little butter-yellow halos, and Felix lingers for a moment on the bottom step, nose in his scarf and his ears frosted pink by the chill.

“Dinner at mine?” Cullen offers, jingling his keys in his pocket.

“I need to get back,” Cassandra says, quietly apologetic. “Board meeting early tomorrow before church. But I’ll be back in the afternoon—I can bring food if you like? How many people?”

Dorian thumbs his phone without actually checking it. “The four of us, plus Max and Evy, Josie, Leliana said she _might_ make it, definitely Mae and her husband… that’s what, nine? Tenish?”

“The contractor’s supposed to stop by, but I don’t think we’re obligated to feed them all,” Cullen adds. “Not unless it’s just Bull and his assistant.”

Cassandra huffs a laugh. “Let’s pray he doesn’t show up, then. That man could probably put away a dozen sandwiches on his own. I’ll bring plenty, and if not, we can order pizza. Goodnight, boys.”

“’Night, Cassandra,” they chorus, almost drowning out the muted “God bless” she passes their way before turning down the street to her own car. The lights of Cullen’s unobtrusive Mazda flash, and Dorian threads his arm through Felix’s.

“So, dinner?”

“Only if it’s on you.”

“Isn’t it always?” He nudges him implacably toward the front seat and climbs in the back himself with an explosive sigh. “You pick the place this time, Cull, I’m hungry enough I’ll eat anything.”

“Yes, dear,” Cullen says dryly. He turns to Felix as they fumble with their seatbelts. “How do you feel about Indian takeaway, or is that too weird for you?”

“It’s not weird,” Felix laughs. “I haven’t had Rami’s in a while, if you’re worried about offending me with inauthentic cuisine.”

“Rami’s it is. Dorian?”

Dorian yawns and kicks his feet up behind the clutch. “Heartily seconded.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for more carver/felix, cullrian, and dragon age in general (including fic updates), follow me on tumblr @ erebones!


	2. 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings for this chapter that i can think of other than a brief HIV mention

Carver wakes up cold around five in the morning. Someone—Bethany, probably—has slid a pillow under his head and draped him in a thin afghan, but his mum keeps the house cool during the night and his toes feel a bit stiff. The kitchen light is on around the corner, and he can hear the soft clink of his mother trying to be quiet as she starts coffee and fishes around for something in the dishwasher. He winces and pushes himself up, feeling the ache of a night on the couch in every muscle and tendon.

“Oh, love, I’m sorry I woke you.” His mum peeks at him from the kitchen entryway, still bundled in her sleepwear and cradling a mug in her hands. “You should have gone upstairs—the sheets on your bed are fresh.”

“I know, Mum. I just fell asleep.” He rubs his eyes until the grit start to peel away and curls his toes in the threadbare carpet. “Any more of that coffee left?”

“I made extra. Want some cheesy toast?”

His stomach tightens pathetically at the offer. Cheesy toasts, the breakfast of champions. Or of Hawkes, at any rate. Just thinking about it makes his mouth water, the smell of buttered bread and lightly-browned cheese already rising in his nostrils like a phantom. “Yes please.”

She goes back to the kitchen and he can hear the cheerful splash of coffee against ceramic like a buried memory. He can barely conjure his father’s face in his mind: fresh-faced with young fatherhood, bearded, with laughing grey eyes that Marian has and Carver always wanted. He isn’t sure if the picture he carries in his head is true to what he really saw, or only a pale carbon-copy of the family portraits his mother displays proudly around the house, but he treasures it all the same. It’s an image tied up with coffee in the early morning, with his mother soft-eyed and still a little sleepy as she spreads butter thickly over bread. He slumps into the kitchen and stirs a spoonful of cream into his mug.

“You talked to Marian lately?”

“Mm. She called yesterday. Mostly talked to Bethy on the phone.” She pops a tray of bread slices piled high with cheese into the oven and he sits at the kitchen table, letting the warmth of the coffee seep through his icy fingers. “She’s doing well. Seeing that girl again.” She shakes her head as she sits opposite him. “She’s just going to get her heart broken, and I hate it. I wish there was something I could do or say, but,” she sighs, “I suppose they’re her mistakes to make.”

“She’s a big girl,” Carver says gruffly. He always feels awkward when his mum talks about Marian’s love life. He likes Isabela all right, when she’s not crossing continents at the drop of a hat with hardly a word to anyone, and he knows his mum does, too. He just can’t help feeling like her criticism of Marian is a subtler reflection on himself.

“I know. But mothers worry. They can’t help it.” She looks at him over the rim of her coffee mug and oh, bollocks. He knows what comes next. “What about you, sweetheart? Anyone special lurking about?”

“ _Lurking_? God, Mum, that’s so sinister.”

“Don’t swear,” she says mildly, though it hardly qualifies for a rebuke. She’s about at pious as Carver is, which isn’t very. The six-pointed star on his shoulder speaks more to his family than his faith. “You know what I mean. I’m not trying to _pry_ , love, I don’t need details. I just like to keep abreast of my children’s lives, especially now that they’ve out and flown the coop.”

She’s pulling that sad-eyed, faraway look, like he doesn’t know perfectly well she’s twisting his arm about it. “Mum. Believe me, if I had a boyfriend you would be the first to know.”

She sighs. “You’re not even trying, darling. I just worry about you, all alone in that little flat, not even a _roommate_.”

“I’ve got Fenris. He’s basically a roommate. Crashes on my couch and eats my food enough to be one.”

“But Fenris isn’t in _love_ with you. Is he?”

“Mum, no. He’s not. We’ve been over this.”

Her mouth tightens a little, and he instantly feels terrible. “I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’ll stop bothering you.”

 _Ugh_. “You’re not bothering me, Mum. Sorry. I’m just, y’know. Tired.” He slides his hand across the table, palm-down, and she puts hers over it. “Now that you mention it, there is this one guy.”

“Oh?” It’s kind of adorable how hard she’s trying not to overreact. Her face is absolutely still, brows lifted in feigned mild interest, but the way her hand tightens on his says otherwise. “Who?”

“Well, it’s not anything. Not really. He’s commissioning me for a bookshelf.”

Her mouth tightens, this time in something that’s suspiciously like a smile. “A bookshelf?”

“Yeah. Present for a friend. He came into the shop yesterday after the rush was over and he was, y’know. Cute.” _Ugh_ _again_. He’s rubbish at this. Talking about _boys_ with his _mum_ like he’s a twelve-year-old girl all starry-eyed and whatever.

His mum’s mouth is working in an effort to keep quiet, and her eyes are brighter than he’s seen them in a long while. “Are you going to see him again?”

“It wasn’t a _date_ , Mum. And yeah, I mean, we have to meet up occasionally to make sure I’m making it how he wants. We’ve got an appointment early next week to go over the blueprints.” He decides not to mention that his client is most likely straight. Or that they’re meeting in a coffee shop—that would _really_ set her off.

“What’s his name?”

“Felix.” The last name slips him at the moment, but he knows it rhymes. Poor sod.

“How adorable!” she chirps, and quickly dials it back when he winces. “Such a sweet name. Oh Carver, I’m so pleased. Of course it’s just a _professional relationship_ ,” God, his mother uses air quotes better than anyone apart from Varric, “but still. It’s something.” She pats his hand and stands up. “Just a minute, I think I smell the cheese roasting.”

Carver gets out of his chair and stretches his arms up until his back pops and he feels somewhat human again. He fetches plates and napkins before his mum can, and soon they’re sat back down munching on cheesy toasts and not talking about anything in particular. It’s one of the things he loves most about her: she’s as outgoing and sparkling as her daughters, but she’s perfected the air of comfortable silence for her son’s sake. Carver isn’t much of a conversationalist, especially at this hour of the morning, and his mum is content to sit in silence with him rather than chatter on about nothing.

He wants to wish Bethany good morning, but his own place and the desire for fresh, unslept-in clothes is more powerful. He kisses his mum’s cheek in farewell and steps out into the foggy morning. Even with his hood up, the chill bites at his stubbled chin, and he thinks again for the tenth time about growing a beard. Of course, then he wonders idly if Felix likes beards, and he stomps on that thought relentlessly as he coaxes his battered car door open and stuffs himself inside.

It had been Bethy’s car, and it ill-fits him, but when she got sick and he got the apartment, it made sense for him to inherit it. She makes him call it Blue in her presence, even though it’s hardly that anymore—it’s more of a beat-up titanium grey with the memory of blue clinging to the rusty wheel-hubs and under the lip of the boot. It still starts when he asks, though, and mostly the headlights work and the battery is new, and it gets him from place to place even if it sounds like a dragon coming back from the dead (Beth would have loved that metaphor, have to remember that one for later), and really that’s all that matters.

His apartment is quietly waiting for him when he finally drags himself up the stairs and fits his key in the lock. It sticks, of course, and he contemplates kicking the door open when it opens from the inside and Fenris is there, bleary-eyed and his hair a silvery-white wreck. Carver blinks at him.

“Hullo.”

“D’you get my text?” Fen mumbles before slouching back inside.

Carver digs his phone out of his pocket. _Ur not home but i’m crashing here bc reasons. Fen._ “Uh, yeah, just now. What reasons?”

“Got a creepy vibe from a guy coming out of the club, your place was closer.” Fenris returns to his pile of blankets on the couch, cuddling into them like a crosslegged stork on its nest. “You’re not still mad at me, are you?”

“What? No, no. That wasn’t mad, that was temporary stupidity.” He kicks the door shut, satisfied when the frame shakes a little and a flake of plaster floats down like a single, forlorn snowflake.

“You know it sticks because you do that, right?”

“It sticks no matter what I do. I’m hoping that if it finally breaks the landlady will pay attention and fucking fix it.”

As if on cue, there comes a tap on the door. For a second Carver thinks he’s genuinely summoned Meredith from whatever dungeony crypt she lives in at the bottom of the apartment complex, but then he recognizes the delicate touch and he tugs the door open again—with some effort—to find Merrill standing on his tatty welcome mat.

“Hullo,” she says brightly, holding up the carafe she’s got clutched to her chest like it’s an offering. “I heard voices so I brought coffee over early. I hope that’s okay?”

“Yeah, that’s great, thanks Merr. Come on in.”

Normally the prospect of _more_ company at the godawful hour of—he checks his phone discreetly—seven in the morning would send him snarling back to bed, but Merrill and Fenris are different. Merrill knows right where he keeps his mugs and she sets up the coffee like she lives in this apartment and not her own across the hall. She always uses the same serving-ware, the little cherry-red cups and matching sugar dish and cream pitcher that Marian got him as a gag gift when he moved in, but the joke’s on her because he actually uses them. Merrill carries over a cup for Fenris, who sticks one slender arm out of his blanket-fort to accept it, and sits cross-legged on the yoga mat spread out next to the coffee table. ( _That_ he never uses. Sorry, Mum.) The slatted shades are still cracked from yesterday, and a little watery light filters through, splashing the bare brick walls with stripes like a watercolor painting. He sips his own coffee—terrifically strong and perfectly balanced, learned behind the counter at Herald’s alongside Bethany and Cole before Merrill got the job at Stroud’s—and drags a chair over from the kitchenette to close their off-kilter little circle of friendship.

“So tell me more about this creep,” Carver says. “Do I need to beat him up? Do a little stalking?”

“Ooh! Who are we punching?” Merrill pipes up eagerly, her little pointed face wreathed in steam.

“No one. It was nothing. I, um, took care of it.”

Carver lifts his eyebrows. “So you’re here hiding from the police.”

“What? No, don’t be absurd. It was a minor scuffle, that’s all. He was pissed because I kicked him out earlier that night, and he tried to tail me to my apartment so I hid behind a bin and kneed him in the nuts when he got close.” Fenris’ smile is sharp and humorless. “Hopefully he won’t be stalking anyone else for a little while. I give it a few weeks before his _equipment_ is up to snuff.”

Carver winces at the thought. Fenris doesn't look like he could be a bouncer, but Carver knows his slight frame is deceptive. He's a bit of a martial arts nut, teaches a few classes at the Knight Club where Carver takes fencing on the weekends, and he's more than capable of flipping Carver over his shoulder without breaking a sweat. Still, he can't help but worry—Fenris is fragile in other ways.

“Well, you ever have any trouble, you know who to call. Merrill will disembowel them with the power of yoga.”

Merrill snorts into her cup, which she's cradling in two open palms like a bowl of green tea even though the ceramic is terrifically hot. “Fen can take care of himself. But yes. If you ever need me to _disembowel_ anyone,” she says the word with relish, “just point the way.”

“Noted.” Fenris is still bleary-eyed and frowning, but he's noticeably more relaxed as he unspools from his nest and stretches into a long, lean arc. “I'm for a shower. You two carry on with your… zen time, or whatever.”

Merrill clicks her tongue but lets him go, accustomed to his reclusive nature. “More coffee, Carv?”

“Nah, I'm stopping by Harold’s before work.”

“Green tea, then?” she asks hopefully.

“Yeah, all right.”

She bounces up again to fetch fresh cups, and he lets her because the couch is lumpy and soft and he feels like he could sink right into it and float away. He lets his head tip back and his eyes close as he savers the last dregs of bitter espresso on his tongue. “Hey Merrill?”

“Yes?” Her voice is muffled—she's probably halfway in the cupboard searching for just the right teacups.

“I've got this commission I wondered if you wanted to weigh in on. Remember Bethy's desk?”

“Of course!” she chirrups.

“I've got a guy who wants me to make a bookshelf sort of similar to it. You helped me hammer the designs out last time, so, y'know. I'd give you a cut, of course.”

“Don't be silly, I barely did a thing last time.” Her voice grows closer, and then the couch dips as she sinks into it, delicate as a bird. “Do you have pictures?”

He opens his eyes to wrestle his phone out of his pocket and trades it for a cup of steaming hot tea. She scrolls through the pictures he snapped last night: art nouveau-inspired swirls and flowing lines, braiding together to support the shelves like flowering vines. It's a lot more hands-on work than he usually does, but he's looking forward to the challenge, and after the holidays there should be plenty of time to pour himself into it.

“These are lovely,” she says quietly, tracing the designs with a fingertip that hovers just above the screen of his mobile.

“Thanks.” From the dividing wall that separates his bed from the rest of the loft, there comes a rusty mew, and Peaches prowls into the main room looking peeved. Carver pats his thigh and the fluffy Maine Coon hops up delicately, sniffing at his fingers and wrist before settling down. Hardly distracted from the pictures in front of her, Merrill extends a hand to pat Peaches’ soft head. “I won’t start any serious work until after the holidays, but just so you know.”

“Can I…?” Her thumb hovers over the _share_ icon.

“Oh, sure.”

When Merrill has got the photos safely stored in her own phone, she folds herself back up on the yoga mat and starts her breathing exercises. Carver’s too tired and too full of tea to fully participate, but he dozes on the couch and listens to her off-key humming as she does some mild stretches. Peaches is a slight weight on his thigh, warm and rumbling comfortably, and he loses track of time for a little while. When he comes back to full awareness, the room is brighter than before and Merrill is doing splits while she reads her email. He checks the time and sighs.

“Sorry, puss, gotta go be an adult now.” Carver hoists Peaches up as he stands, and the cat tucks herself contentedly in a boneless drape over his shoulder. “D’you want a lift to the ’shop, Merrill?”

“Hmm? No, I’m all right, I need to run a few errands. I’ll see you later, though.” She sets his phone delicately on the coffee table and rises, beginning to clear away the tea things.

In the bedroom, Carver deposits Peaches on the mattress and sorts out his clothes: white tee, threadbare jeans that are just too comfortable to throw away, a sort-of-new forest green flannel that Bethy got him for their birthday last month, and his sturdy ’shop boots. He stands in front of the cheap door mirror propped against the wall and ruffles his hair, looking himself over critically. His jaw is sort of itchy, but he thinks the stubble looks all right—he’s no fashion icon, but he’ll do.

In the main room, Merrill has already departed, leaving the cups and saucers in the sink for him to take care of later. His phone has one new text: _you fell asleep on me, you berk. u better visit later._ He grins and checks the time—eight twenty, perfectly respectable—and texts back, _might do. shall i bring pastries round for brunch?_ While he waits for her response, he scrounges about for something to take to the ’shop for lunch. The fridge is embarrassingly bare, but there’s a few slices of pizza left from the last game night and a can of off-brand soda. He packs these in a crumpled grocery sack, checks Peaches’ food and water levels, and slams the door shut on his way out hard enough to flake plaster.

His phone buzzes. _OMG PLS PLS BABY BROTHER_

_feck off, we’re twins_

_i’m older by two minutes. it counts._

The sibling banter is interrupted by an incoming text from Fenris. _did you seriously abandon me in your apartment again_ … Carver sighs. Dammit. Fen is so quiet he sometimes forgets he’s there.

_if you’d just sign the lease and stop skulking around like a feral cat it could be your apartment, too._

It’s an age-old argument, one he’s still not entirely sure he understands. Not that he’s eager to have ’round-the-clock company—he likes having his own place, a space away from the insanity of his life—but Fenris isn’t like normal company. He’s a bit of a slob sometimes, but he (eventually) cleans up after himself, always brings the best drinks, and cooks like a fucking dream while Carver still struggles to make pot noodles that taste edible. Carver doesn’t think he’d mind having Fenris for a full-time roommate. But then, they’d probably have to get a bigger place, and he’s rather attached to his humble brick-walled studio.

_maybe someday, if your mum gives up on trying to get us together._

Ha! True. His mum adores Fenris, and lives in hope that they will one day see the light and fall madly in love. Which probably isn’t going to happen, seeing as Fenris has his eagle-bright eyes on some handsome blond guy who frequents the bar Fen works at—name and profession to be determined, but even Carver admits he’s attractive, if a bit arms-and-legs for his taste.

_i told u, babe, it’s meant to be._

_fuck off_

Carver grins and stuffs his phone in his pocket as he climbs into his car. Not likely.

///

Sometimes Felix hates days off. He never knows what to do with himself, and he often ends up just sitting at home, marking Dorian’s student papers with too many frowny faces and generally wearing a hole in the carpet. Today, at least, he already has plans: _Visit Dad_ has been penciled into his planner for weeks now.

He’s running a little behind schedule, so he’s hopping a bit on his toes in the line at Harold’s when the door jingles and Carver Hawke steps in, windblown and rosy-cheeked and staring hard at his phone. Felix jerks his eyes back to the board before he can be caught staring, tongue trapped between his teeth in pretend thought. He’d forgotten Carver mentioned coming here every day, though the sister is conspicuously absent—unless Cole, the pale, serious boy who usually makes Felix his coffee, is the sister, which he doubts.

“Usual, thanks,” he says when it’s his turn at the till, fishing in his pocket for extra tip change. “Make it a double.”

Cole’s grey eyes scan him, looking over his new cashmere scarf, his pin-straight jacket cuffs, the neatly ironed lines of his dress-casual slacks. Not a hair out of place, not an inch of ink showing under his collar. Perfect. “Visiting your father today,” Cole remarks, framed like a question but without the upward lilt at the end of the sentence. Felix is used to it.

“That’s right.” He tries not to look over his shoulder. He doesn’t think anyone else was behind him in line, and he swears he can feel the warm cloud of Carver’s presence looming over him. He leans closer over the counter instead as he passes over his card. “Put the fellow behind me on my bill, too.”

Cole’s eyes flick again, darting past Felix and down to the till. There might be a small smile playing around his mouth, but it’s hard to tell. He swipes the card and when the receipt spits out, Felix reads it as he signs his name at the bottom. _Latte gr. x2, soy, no sug. Spice Mocha med. x1, xtra cream._ He files it away in the back of his mind for future reference and turns, feigning surprise.

“Oh, hullo. Fancy seeing you here.”

Carver blinks at him as if coming out of a daze, phone still in hand. For a split second his face is slack with confusion, and Felix wonders if he’s just made a terrible fool of himself; then recognition lights in his dazzling blue eyes, and Carver gives him a friendly nod. “Hullo. Didn’t think I’d be running into you quite so soon. You a regular too?”

“Yes, just not this time of day, usually. But I’ve got an appointment, so.” He grimaces, which Carver returns with companionable commiseration, and Felix scoots out of the way to let Carver step up to the till. It’s not busy so late in the morning, and Cole is the only one behind the counter—over the scrape and whine of the espresso grinder, Felix asks, “Are you on your way to work, then?”

“Yeah, sort of. Grabbing breakfast for me and my sister before I head to the ’shop. I promised her blueberry muffins.” He jiggles his phone in his hand as if to indicate the whims of siblings passed down from on high.

“It’s her day off, then?” Felix half-turns, gesturing with his chin. “Thought I’d see her here, I’m not usually in this early in the day.” At Carver’s hesitation, he elaborates: “You said she works here? I’ve never come across her, so I figured she works the morning shift.” _God, Felix, stop prying._

Carver’s face clears a little, but not much. “Ah. Yes, well, she’s taking a little time off from work at the moment, actually. She’s an art student, so she’s got about a million projects to finish before finals.”

An art student, a barista, and battling leukemia? This girl must be a force of nature. Still, Felix knows by the discomfort in Carver’s stance that it’s time to change tacks. “Creativity must run in the family,” he says, smiling, and then Cole is clearing his throat and sliding two paper takeout cups across the counter. “Thanks, Cole. See you tomorrow.”

“Probably,” Cole agrees, and Felix is feeling just irrepressibly impish that he leaves Carver with a bright, private smile and a casual “See you around, then?” as he cradles the lattes close to his chest. Carver murmurs something in reply, and Felix catches a whiff of him as he passes: comfortable leather and ground-up sawdust. Just as the door swings shut behind him, he can hear Cole saying, “It’s already been taken care of,” and his good mood magnifies to imagine the surprise and, perhaps, pleasure on Carver’s solemn face. He has such a lovely smile. _Stop being such a weirdo_ , he tells himself sternly as he turns the corner and watches the massive cement façade of the hospital hove into view. He picks up the pace.

He’s all but humming to himself when he finally steps out of the lift at the hospital, coffees still firmly ensconced in his hands. He weaves his way through nurses and secretaries to the door of his father’s office, which is ajar, and he nudges it all the way open with his foot.

“Hullo, Dad.”

Gereon Alexius sits upright with a grunt that sounds suspiciously like the cut-off end of a snore. He pushes his spectacles back onto his nose and smiles with studied benignity, humming a greeting as Felix drops his latte off on the desk. “Good morning, Felix. You’re looking… perky.”

“And you’re looking like you fell asleep on your desk again.” He makes a beeline for the lumpy brocade divan, a relic from the old manse that fits in perfectly with the rest of the office: the antique shelving, the gnarled potted plant, the authentic Cezanne in its thick gilt frame hanging on the wall. Wealthy, but understated. Comfortable. Felix settles himself and raises one disparaging eyebrow at his father. “What time did you come into work this morning? Five? Four?”

“Five-thirty, don’t be absurd.” Gereon picks up the paper cup with all the finesse of a lord taking tea and slurps appreciatively. “Hmm.”

“Good?”

“Yes, of course. And how is our friend Cole?”

“Fine. Not very talkative, as usual.” He sits back and props one ankle on the opposite knee as he cradles his own coffee close to his chest. It’s a little too hot for him, still, even after the walk from the café, but it warms his sternum nicely as he breathes in the comforting aroma of espresso and steam. “How are you, Dad? Really?”

“Well, thank you.” Gereon arches an eyebrow at his son’s patented huff of disbelief. “I’ve acquired a new assistant recently, and through some miracle of corporate foresight, she’s actually competent.”

“Congratulations, when’s the wedding?”

“Hush yourself, boy. What are you getting up to lately? How’s the thesis coming?”

“Coming,” Felix answers vaguely. He hates when his father asks about his studies, largely because he feels like a failure that he still has studies at all. At his age, his father was a junior med tech in one of the most prestigious hospitals in the UK, and here Felix is with three graduate degrees under his belt and not a lick of proper career-building to show for it. But because he does love his father, and doesn’t want this rare opportunity to talk face-to-face to devolve into underhanded backbiting, he says, “I’m helping Dorian out with the new house later today, you should stop by.”

His father perks up a little at this. “Hmm. Perhaps I will. There’s a board meeting at four that’s supposed to run late, but afterward...”

“Text me when you get out,” Felix offers, though it rings a bit hollow. Board meetings that run late always run _really fucking late_. “Dad, you really need to see this place. It’s fantastic. It reminds me of the family house, but it’s hardly been updated at all so it’s like walking onto the set of an eighties horror flick. The wallpaper alone…”

His dad’s a sucker for anything antiquarian, and they ramble on about Dorian’s restoration project for a good half-hour before Gereon broaches the subject Felix has been waiting for: “Don’t take this the wrong way, my boy, but have you spoken to your mother lately?”

Felix sits back in his seat and answers as neutrally as he knows how. “We chatted on the phone a few nights ago, I think. Why?”

“She is… well?”

Felix stares at him. “Dad. You could just shoot her an email and _ask_. I’m not your go-between, remember?”

Gereon looks supremely uncomfortable. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to put you on the spot, I just… it’s difficult to talk to her, sometimes.”

Felix can’t help but have a little sympathy. Lilavati Alexius has always been a bit of a wildcard, never quite proper enough or traditional enough to fit into her husband’s rigid lifestyle, and even now she can be difficult to pin down long enough to have an actual conversation. They were happy for a little while, Felix knows—he has fond memories of summers spent boating and exploring the woods around the family’s summer home in Maharashta, riding on his father’s shoulders or swinging from their hands, suspended between mami and papa like a proper little family.  He knows he’s lucky—the split was fairly amicable, and he was able to see his mother almost as frequently as he wished (which, at seven, was _very_ frequently). But sometimes he watches his father verbally tiptoeing around her name, clearly nostalgic for the rush of young love that had persuaded him to marry Lila in the first place, and he feels a pang of regret that it didn’t work out.

“She’s good,” he says at last, reluctantly fishing his phone out of his pocket. “She’s got a show coming up, in late January at the Tate Modern.” He pulls up his calendar and sends the event in question to his father’s email address, even though he knows he probably won’t come to the opening. “I’m going, if you wanted to be my date.”

Gereon snorts softly. “I will consider it. The Tate, eh? That is… quite an honor.”

“Yeah. She’s been working really hard.” _Art_ and _work_ don’t mesh well in his father’s mind, he knows, but he tries to reinforce the idea anyway. “It’s an installation piece about her childhood in India. Even if you can’t make the opening, you should really go and see it sometime. It’ll be up for six months, so you have no excuse.”

 “Speaking of events...” Gereon clears his throat, and Felix suppresses a sigh. He knows what’s coming. “The annual Christmas Charity Ball for AIDS Awareness is coming up quite rapidly. I assume you’ve received your invitation and intend on RSVP’ing?”

“Of course,” Felix says smoothly, and that isn't the difficult part—the ball is for a good cause, one he’s intimately connected with, and he's always been good at rubbing shoulders with rich toffs for the sake of charity. Of course, there's always a catch. “I suppose I have to bring a date?”

His father nods. “Feel free to bring whoever you like, but there are a number of, ah, suitable young ladies I have in mind if you’re lacking inspiration. And you are _not_ permitted to bring Dorian,” he adds sternly, and Felix can't help but scoff.

“Dad, that was _one_ time.”

“It was memorable,” his father quips, but he's smiling. “Dorian will be in attendance regardless, hanging on Mr. Rutherford's arm all evening, I have no doubt.”

“And Mae?” Felix asks hopefully. Maybe he'll be lucky and her husband won't be able to make it.

“Attending with Thorold, naturally. If you would care to see a list, I can have one made up.”

Felix bites back a sigh. “That's all right. I trust your judgement.” In the end, it won't matter. Whatever bright young thing he wears on his arm will be pretty, witty, and sparklingly intelligent, from a rich family, and ultimately utterly lacking in interest. Not that Felix dislikes women, sexually or otherwise—he's had his share of girlfriends over the years, one or two of them even serious. He'd loved Rylee with all his heart, whatever weight that held at twenty-three. But he's not twenty-three anymore, and sometimes things don't work out. And sometimes worried fathers spend too much time trying to find the perfect woman when Felix would much rather see the view from the other side of the fence.

He doesn't really know why he hasn't come out to his father. At first it seemed unnecessary—both his parents were attentive and loving throughout his childhood, even on separate sides of the city (or sometimes separate continents, when one or the other traveled for work), and have never shown any particular bias in regards to sexual preference. His mother, he knows, has had at least one girlfriend since the split with his father, and Gereon has always been extremely vocal in his support of Dorian, even in the face of Halward’s homophobic attitude. Granted, bisexuality is still widely misunderstood, especially among his father's generation, but he has no doubt that if he announced he was bringing a “gentleman friend” over for dinner, Gereon would hardly bat an eye. Or so he used to feel, anyway. Now it's become a sort of running joke with himself: how many weeks can he go between offers to “arrange” a friendly evening of dinner and drinks with this bright med student or that elegant heiress? And because Felix is a pushover who can't bear to disappoint his overworked, overstressed father, he can never bring himself to flat out refuse.

The Christmas Charity Ball, at least, he’s prepared for. He's attended every year since his diagnosis, and though he avoids the spotlight and giving speeches and such—that he leaves to his father, and other skillful orators like Mae—it’s a point of pride to do the thing properly. Which reminds him, he needs to pick up his altered tux from the tailor before he goes to Dorian’s. “Do you have anyone in mind?” he asks, before the silence can go on too long.

Gereon rattles off a mercifully short list of names, some Felix even recognizes. He wouldn't mind stepping out with Qarina Adaar again, largely because he suspects she swings both ways (or perhaps all ways) herself, and the last time they were paraded about in front of their parents' peers and the city elite, they had marvelous fun getting drunk on the spiked punch and generally making nuisances of themselves. It was almost an evening to rival the time he brought Dorian to the Christmas Gala two years ago. He suspects it's a concession of his father to add her, knowing Felix will actually enjoy spending time with her free, of any expectation of something more serious.

But then Gereon leans forward across the desk, drawing his wandering attention to add, “I had also thought, considering the Gala's angle, it would not be remiss to bring a man for your dinner date.”

Felix blinks at him. Surely he misheard. “What?”

“It would only be for an evening,” Gereon continues, as if Felix needs persuading. “Maxwell is a very nice young man, I’ve met him on a few occasions—his father’s investments align with those of the hospital. He’s the younger son, and therefore given a little more leeway to be public about his… preferences. And I thought you might like to skip the portion of the evening where I throw women at you in hopes that one will finally stick.”

Felix feels his face flame red. “Dad…”

“No, don't say anything. I know I've put pressure on you to settle down, and it's true I worry for you, but it's not fair of me to push my own failings onto you.” He lifts a hand, cutting off Felix's intake of breath. “Consider this a peace offering. If you'd rather bring the Adaar girl, I'll arrange everything and we'll say no more about it. But I thought it was only fair that I stop foisting girls on you at every opportunity. After all, it's hardly fair to the young ladies, either.” He smiles faintly, and Felix returns it after another moment or two of paralyzing shock. He hasn't been giving his father enough credit in the perception department, lately.

“Maxwell, huh?” he says, aiming for casual. “Unfortunate name, but it wouldn't hurt to change it up.”

“Excellent. I'll contact his father later today.”

After a few more minutes of idle chit-chat, there’s a tap on the door. By the look on his father's face, Felix knows his time is up. He rises, kisses Gereon briefly on the cheek, and slips  out, sending a brief text to his tailor on the way to the lift.

The day is almost balmy for November, with a satin-grey sky that seems undecided whether to rain or not. It must have drizzled while he was inside because the sidewalks are damp, but he finds himself unwinding his scarf a bit and slowing his pace to a leisurely stroll as he tracks down his car. A return text comes in just as the engine turns over, and so he parks a few blocks over to visit his tailor.

Bodahn is occupied with another customer when he enters the shop, but his son Sandal is there to take him in back and make sure everything fits as it should. Felix stares at himself in the mirror afterward, turns and paces down the stretch of carpet and back again, peering at his own face more than the cut of the suit (which sits, as always, perfectly). He’s got a shadow of beard coming in that he hasn’t bothered to shave, and it’s not as patchy as it usually is. Perhaps he’ll let it grow. He looks tired, still, but he thinks he’ll always look a little tired. More importantly, he no longer looks quite so sad. For a long time it had clung to his face like unwanted stubble, deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes—and even now he looks older than his twenty-six years, and there’s a few flecks of premature grey here and there around his temples, but he thinks it makes him look rather distinguished. He smiles at himself in the mirror, knuckles hanging easily against the sharp-pressed seam of the trousers, and it comes naturally and without strain. _I’m happy_ , he realizes, and it’s an odd sensation.

“How does it fit, sir?” Sandal inquires in his soft, halting rasp. Felix turns away from the mirror.

“It’s splendid, thank you. I’ll take it home today.”

Packaged up and paid for, the suit hangs neatly from the hook in the back seat of his car as he cruises slowly through Saturday morning traffic. Soon he’s out of the middle of the city and rounding the edge of a park, sprawling and green like new velvet, and up the hill to the quiet residential street where Dorian’s place squats like a gargoyle surrounded by its brood of diminutive offspring.

Cullen is outside when he pulls up and parks on the edge of the gravel driveway, chatting with the house’s owner. Felix has only met him once in passing, but he’s seen him on the university campus—he’s tall and rangy, bald and bespectacled and always wearing some sort of saggy, many-patched cardigan that looks like it was pulled out of a thrift store bargain bin. _Art professors_ , Dorian has sneered to him on more than one occasion, as if he himself doesn’t own a handful of the same for cold days at home in front of the fire. Felix has yet to figure out where he’s from. Eastern Europe, he thinks, with that clipped accent that isn’t quite German and isn’t quite English; but he’s polite enough, in spite of his reclusive nature, and has been very accommodating and patient with Dorian’s wide-ranging ideas for the remodeling process.

They both turn to greet him as he climbs out of his car, and Cullen’s smile looks a bit forced. Oh, boy. “How’s it going?” Felix asks, shaking Solas’ hand briefly.

“Well, for the most part,” Solas answers with a narrow smile. “Just a bit of conflict of interest with the contractor.”

“Bull went ahead and made some alterations to the staircase before we got here,” Cullen explains. “Just a bit of a paperwork mix-up, we’ll sort it out. Everyone else is inside, if you’d like to jump in.”

That’s code for _Captain Rutherford’s sorting this out_ , so Felix takes him at his word and lets himself inside. The front door is ajar even in the November chill, and as soon as he steps inside he can see why: the entire front hall is a cloud of sawdust, and the floorboards underfoot are pale and stripped of their ancient, peeling varnish in preparation for a new coat. He covers the lower half of his face in his sleeve and tiptoes around the chaos. The front hall is empty, for now, but he can hear work going on at a fever pitch elsewhere in the house. Josie is singing somewhere nearby over the rush of water, and he can hear Bull’s rumble and Dorian’s answering clip around the corner. Somewhere upstairs, Mae is calling for a hammer, and Cassandra’s voice comes back faintly that there _are_ no more hammers, someone’s been pinching them, I wonder who that could be!

Felix is still getting his bearings when Sera pops up around the corner, arms full of hammers and eyes glittering with mischief. “Oh excellent, you’re here! Take these.” She unloads them into his arms and takes off like a shot. One slips free immediately, landing a hairsbreadth from his toe, and he turns around in the narrow hallway just in time to meet Cassandra coming around the corner with a dark look in her eye. She stops short at the sight of him and he grins weakly. “I didn’t do it?”

“Don’t worry, I believe you.” She scoops up the erstwhile hammer and looks behind him suspiciously, but Sera has disappeared without a trace. “That girl. I don’t understand what Dorian sees in her.”

“He’s a bleeding-heart,” Felix says with an awkward shrug. “And better she be here getting up to harmless mischief rather than… elsewhere.” The subject of Sera’s home life is one best kept quiet, especially in a house full of people who only know half the story at best. Cassandra, bless her, just nods and takes a few more hammers off his hands.

“Come on, then, Mae and I are almost finished in the bedroom, and then we’re moving on to wallpaper stripping in the hall upstairs.”

There are even more people here than he’d initially thought, several of them complete strangers. A pair of blond, Anglo-Saxon twins whose names escape him are working energetically at the round stained-glass window above the front door, and Bull’s assistant is overseeing something complicated with the electrical wiring in the guest room. Thorold, who he’s only met a few times, is on his back in the master bathroom, the upper half of his sturdy frame wedged beneath the sink as he tinkers and swears occasionally. There are voices in the attic, too, and a couple of Bull’s people are bickering on the landing, and somewhere Sera is blasting peppy music that filters weirdly through the old walls and rises and falls in volume in unexpected places, and Felix feels as if he’s in the middle of a maelstrom of happy, semi-chaotic activity.

“Where do you want me to start?”

Cassandra pushes a spray bottle and a cheap dust mask into his hands. “Wallpaper first, then primer. It should come off easy, there’s nothing but sheetrock underneath.”

Thus instructed, he sets to work. It’s a bit tedious at first, but soon he gets the hang of it, and the rhythm of _spray, set, scrape_ becomes second nature. He hardly notices when Sera joins him, chipping determinedly at the little stubborn bits that stick to the molding, and getting wet wallpaper all over her patterned leggings. They’ve finished about half the wall when Dorian appears, covered in dust but quietly triumphant, and Felix puts down his scraper.

“Good news?”

“We’re not getting fined for the banister fiasco, so yes, very good news.” Dorian taps him on his dust mask. “Do these things actually work?”

Felix shrugs. “So far so good. I brought my inhaler just in case.” Even through the stiff material  he can smell the mildewy damp of the wallpaper and the vaguely chemical aroma of the contents of his spray-bottle, but he hasn’t started coughing yet, so he’ll count it as a win. Out of nowhere his stomach grumbles. “Is it lunchtime yet?”

“Just about. And you’re in luck—Josie made those lovely little custard tarts you love.”

“ _Max_ well, cut that shit out!”

There’s a peal of laughter and then one of the nameless twins races down the hall, spackling caught in her flaxen hair and smeared down the side of her face like haphazard war paint. She throws herself down next to Sera and sticks her foot out in time for her brother to come barreling around the corner and run straight into it. He’s flung forward at terrific speed, and Felix only has enough time to throw the sharp-edged scraper away before ‘Maxwell’ is thrown bodily into his arms.

 _Maxwell is a very nice young man, I’ve met him on a few occasions._ His father’s voice comes back to him, and as he staggers and struggles to right himself, he wonders if they can possibly be one and the same. Looking at his face as Maxwell finds his footing only reinforces the thought. He’s not bad to look at, by any means. Quite the opposite. But unlike Dorian, Felix has never been a sucker for a pretty face.

“God, I’m so sorry!” Maxwell says in a blast of too-white teeth and minty freshness. “Evy, you tit, look what you’ve done.”

“It’s fine,” Felix says, extricating himself with care. Then, to test the waters, “I don’t think we’ve officially met—I’m Felix Alexius.”

There’s a flicker of recognition on Maxwell’s face, carefully hidden a moment later. Bingo. “Max Trevelyan. We’re friends of Cass and Josie’s, and our Dad’s the one restoring all the old glass in this place.” He turns to Dorian, a little more formal this time. “The rose window’s looking good, it’ll just want another coat of lacquer before we leave.”

“Good to know.” Dorian looks between Max and Felix, obviously picking up on the awkward signals, but mercifully doesn’t mention it. “Lunch is being laid out in the dining room if you’d like to join us, there’s plenty to go around.”

Sera and the twins agree heartily, and Felix drags behind with Dorian down the narrow servant’s stairs and around the back way to where everyone else has homed in like pigeons to their nests. Dorian bumps him lightly in the ribs with his elbow. “So? What was that back there with dear Maxwell?”

Felix groans. “Long story.”

“Short version?”

“Dad’s trying to set me up with him for the charity gala.”

“He _what_?” Dorian stops stock-still in the narrow hallway, practically pinning Felix to the wall with his electric grey eyes. “You told him you were bi and you didn’t _tell me_?”

“I haven’t told anybody anything!” Felix protests. “Jesus. You know I’d consult with you beforehand. No, he’s just… picking up signals, I guess. More likely, he thinks the entire thing is platonic. He said—listen to this—he said he _feels bad_ for the girls he keeps throwing at me for events.”

“Well, well. Bravo, Gereon.” The twirled ends of his mustache stretch in a wicked smile. “He is quite dashing, isn’t he? Max?”

“In a sort of dry, cardboard-cutout Disney prince way, I suppose.”

Dorian groans. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’m discerning! There’s a difference.”

“That’s right, you prefer the dirty great lumberjack type who can throw you over their shoulder and carry you off into the woods for a shag.”

Felix snorts. “I think you’re talking about yourself, now.”

“God forbid! Cullen would _never_ put me over his shoulder. He knows I prefer to be carried bridal style.”

“Ahem.”

They both whip their heads around in unison to find Cullen poking his head around the corner, pink-cheeked and his mouth pursed with suppressed laughter. “Sorry to interrupt, but Cass is saying grace in a moment.”

“Ah. Right.” Dorian slides his cunning gaze over to Felix. “We’re not done discussing this, by the way.”

“Of course we’re not,” Felix sighs, and follows them into the dining room for lunch.


	3. 3.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carver drags himself to fencing at arse o'clock in the morning for a good cause, and meets with Felix to discuss the commission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah what the fuck, it's not sunday but i'm updating. warnings for this chapter: brief warning for emetophobes, I'm one myself so I gloss over it; also a hospital mention, but I think that's about it.
> 
> Special thanks to earlgreyer for consulting with me on this chapter! You're the bomb :)

The rest of Carver’s week passes fairly normally: wake up at the crack of dawn, yoga and tea and zen time with Merrill (and sometimes Fenris), make a Harold’s run with Bethy when she feels well enough, then work at the ’shop until night has well fallen and Blackwall has to bully him out the door to get him to go home. He’s exhausted by the time Family Dinner Night rolls around, but his mother and sisters forgive him his inattentiveness. Marian is back on a high note with Isabela, and has several new stories of their exploits to relate, all of which have their mum burying her disapproval into her tea, and Bethany in stitches. They’ve finally switched her medication to something more hard-hitting, and she’s eating more and sleeping better than Carver’s seen in a while. It’s a refreshing change.

Saturday morning dawns with an earlier-than-usual alarm that seems to vibrate the entire mattress. Carver taps the screen of his phone with increasing vigor until the touchpad finally registers and goes to snooze, and he rolls over and buries his head under the pillow like a great cranky ostrich. Why the _fuck_ did he let Al talk him into this?

“Come to early training!” he mimics, voice muffled in his bedding. “It’s for a good cause! It’ll be fun!” Peaches lifts her head from the foot of the bed and gives an inquiring mew. “ _No_ I’m not talking to you, Peach.” He toes her off the bed and wrests himself upright with much growling and gnashing of teeth. Carver is _not_ a morning person.

The drive in to the club is short, at least, and he grips his travel mug of coffee grimly as he navigates traffic and parallel parks one-handed just around the corner. Take that, Bethy, he thinks—she’s an excellent driver, but parallel parking is one skill she has yet to master. He drags himself out of the car in his sweats and hoodie, breath frosting in the chilly air, and double-checks the locks before slumping down the sidewalk like a certified zombie.

The Knight Club sits proudly on the corner of two well-kept streets, squeezed between a shiny-new ramen joint and an Apple store. He shoulders his way inside, and even though he’s tired and cranky, some of the week’s tightly-wound stress starts to melt away as he pads quietly to the front desk. It’s still early, and Min isn’t at her station yet, so he checks himself in by signing the clipboard and plods to the locker room, duffle bag slung over one shoulder.

The portraits on the club’s wall of fame stare back at him as he passes: the so-called “Knights of the Round Table.” Alistair does love his puns. The last one is of Al himself, resplendent in his Gunners uniform, a decade younger and grinning with the irrepressibility of youth and victory. That had been the year before his diagnosis, the peak of his short-lived footie career, and two years before opening the Knight Club to the public along with his wife and business partner, Shani Amel—Carver’s cousin. Carver tips the photograph a salute before turning into the locker room to hit the showers.

One steamy warm-up later, he’s feeling more like himself, enough to shoulder a slap on the back from Alistair without flinching. Much. “You’re here! I almost thought you wouldn’t make it.”

“It was a close call,” Carver says, which is a lie. He’s always had a soft spot for the big lug, even before he knew him as Al and only knew him as Theirin, star defensive midfielder of the Arsenal F.C. He returns the slap, which turns into a sort of one-armed hug, and they enter the fencing court where Cassandra is already waiting for them. She’s half-kitted out in her white joggers and stiff canvas jacket, doing a few lazy swings with her sabre to warm up her wrist. She hails them with a flick of her gloved hand and bends to scoop up her helmet.

“That’s one down. What about your other boys, Theirin? They lose their nerve?”

“I’m here!” The doors swing open again, nearly catching Al in the heel, and Ruvena bounds in with her hair still wet and her fencing jacket half-zipped over her skintight leggings. Carver rubs his eyes in preemptive horror. If Alistair’s a cheerful bugger in the mornings, Rue is positively _obnoxious_. “I met the boys coming out of the changing rooms, but I don’t think they’re showering.”

“Good. Start your laps, then, we’ll wait. Alistair, don’t you have a self-defense class to be at?”

“They’re warming up,” Alistair says defensively. “I just wanted to make sure Carver didn’t walk into any walls on his way here.”

“Oh, ha bloody ha.” Carver punches him idly in the shoulder and darts away to start laps, a few hundred paces behind where Rue is skating around the outside of the court like a gazelle.

Pax and Barris fall in beside him on his next go-around, looking about as haggard as he feels. Barris was likely up half the night with his new baby, and Pax… well, best not think about what Pax was up to. He has a tendency to start the weekends early. Carver puts up with their companionable bickering for a lap or two, then powers through the rest of the way to catch up with Rue just as she slows to a trot at the end of her round. He does a few walkabouts and goes to the rack to grab some gear.

“Hey Hawke! When are you gonna invest in some quality equipment?”

“When I become a massive nerd like you,” he joshes back, tossing a foil Rue’s way. She snatches it out of the air easily, ignoring Cassandra’s irritable _stop fooling around_ as it drifts across the court. Carver steps into his jacket—technically a free-for-all just like all the borrowed equipment on the racks, but someone has scrawled his name in red pen on the inside of the collar—and pats the Velcro closed while Rue pulls on her specially-made leather-tipped gloves. “When are you gonna buy your own sword?”

“I have swords,” Rue protests.

“Yeah, I meant the practice kind. I’m not facing off against you with one of your pig-stickers.”

He’s been to Rue’s apartment a few times, for after-competition drinks and once for Pax’s birthday party, and her collection of blades is impressive. A handful she inherited from her father, a renowned fencing master and antique sword collector in his own right, but the majority are hers—and she knows how to use them.

“I want to make my own,” she says, and after a beat he realizes he’s not surprised at all.

“Oh, is the Knight Club offering smithing classes now?”

“I wish! No, a friend of a friend makes functional weapons and armor for reenactment groups, and she’s been nice enough to let me dick around in her workshop sometimes.”

“I take it back,” Carver says, “you’re not a massive nerd. You’re an _embarrassingly_ massive nerd. Ow!” She’s punched him in the shoulder, hard. He supposes he deserves it. “No, really, it’s a compliment. My sister would love you.”

“Is your sister a lesbian?”

“I don’t think so, sorry. And if she were I’d keep her miles away from _you_. Hey!” He ducks another swing. “Cass, Ruvena’s beating me up!”

“Good for her,” comes the acerbic response. Rue sticks her tongue out at him.

“All right kids, huddle up! I have a new friend for you to play with.”

Alistair comes swanning back through the door before Rue can hit him again. Thank goodness. On his heels is their new instructor, a recent hire intended to flesh out Cassandra’s teaching with more advanced techniques. He’s of a height with Alistair, blond and ruddy-cheeked with friendly sloe-dark eyes, and he looks around at all of them with a good-natured solemnity that Carver appreciates at this hour of the morning. 

“This is Cullen, he’s going to help Cassandra whip you all into shape. Your first demo is two weeks from Christmas at the vet’s club, which he’s sponsoring, so at least try to pretend you know what you’re doing.”

There’s a round of snickering and booing from the peanut gallery, and then Cass taps her boot on the ground and perfect silence falls. “That’s enough. Pair off, please, and warm up. Find your rhythm.”

Rue looks like she wants to sidle up to Carver, but Cass directs her to Barris—who’s a little afraid of both women, but then, who isn’t?—and Pax faces off with Carver from the other side of the starting tape, the sabre a familiar weight in his hand. He jerks his faceguard down and squints through the mask at Cassandra, whose arm is lifted in an idle countdown. At the last second he settles his weight and flicks his eyes to Pax, and lunges forward almost before Cass has dropped her wrist to her side.

“Begin!”

There’s a sharp clang of metal and Pax counters, skipping back a few paces. “Jesus, Carv! We’re warming up, not disemboweling each other.”

Still, he retaliates well enough, if slowly, and Carver lets him be lazy for another moment or two before springing at him again. Their blades clash and they’re well outside the guidelines, but they’re hardly beginners. Carver keeps half an eye on Rue and Barris off to the left, enough so that they don’t run into one another, and forces Pax into a circling pattern, prowling after an opening. Pax is better than he lets on—he’s not as good as Carver, but he’s good. He wouldn’t be here for their little early-morning exercise if he wasn’t.

The whole thing was Alistair’s idea, as most things are: cobble together a small group of the better fencers to put on demonstrations at educational venues, schools and children’s hospitals and so forth. And ex-military recovery homes, apparently. That one had been Shani’s suggestion. She’d served a brief stint in the armed forces before setting up shop as a self-defense instructor, and this Cullen fellow had been a uni friend back in the day, serving far longer than she before he was honorably discharged. Now he’s working to set up a group home for recovering veterans like him, and when he came to Shani inquiring about the Knight Club, Alistair leapt at the opportunity to provide a demonstration in hopes of bringing in fresh meat. Carver himself has never met the man, but he’s seen a few pictures of him on Shani’s desk back from her army days. He looks a lot older now, and yet somehow less tired. Handsome, in a sturdy, weather-beaten sort of way, but Carver’s pretty sure he’s with someone. And a few years out of his preferred age range.

“It’s perfect,” Alistair had declared over a pint or three at the Hanged Man, back when he’d first sprung the idea on Carver. “We do this sort of thing all the time—partnering with charities, recruiting people with the teaching skills we need for our students and the connections we want to the philanthropic beat. And Cullen’s a good guy, _and_ he can fence like no one I’ve ever seen. Says it was a hobby he picked up after being discharged.” Al had shaken his head and whistled, a bit of a damp, airy endeavor after the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. Lightweight.

Carver, swayed by Al’s passion and flattered at the suggestion that he was good enough to be part of a demo team, had accepted. And now here he was, being swatted at with a ruddy great stick of metal at arse o’clock in the morning instead of sleeping in with his cat on his chest and waking up to Fenris making rashers and eggs in his tiny kitchen. (Fenris had slept over on the couch again. Three nights running. He really needs to figure out what’s going on there.)

Pax’s blade slashes toward him and he barely gets out of the way in time. Somewhere nearby, Cassandra clicks her tongue. “All right, good. Hawke, wake up, your blade is falling a bit. Barris, watch your feet. Sir, anything to add?”

Rutherford waves the honorific aside with an appeasing smile. “Just Cullen, I’m retired. You’re all quite good, but I see a few small things that could be improved. Let’s see… Hawke, was it? Would you care to join me in a demonstration?”

Rutherford isn’t kitted out, but it’s the work of a moment to get him outfitted in some borrowed gear. Carver rolls his neck while  he waits, heartbeat starting to slow from the run and the brief bout. Pax has pushed his faceguard up and is rubbing at his moustache, looking patently relieved that he hasn’t been selected for demo duty, and Rue and Barris are watching with similar cocks of boredom to the tilt of their hips—it’s clear they’d rather be participating.

“En garde,” Rutherford says when his toes have found the edge of the marking tape. Carver loosens his knees and waits.

The first strike is so quick Carver hears the whoosh of air before he sees the blade coming toward him. He reacts on instinct alone, and the shock of the hit travels through the hilt and into his forearm as he turns the strike aside. He retaliates as quickly as he can, but he’s still a hair too slow, and in half a second Rutherford has parried and caught him a glancing blow on the upper arm. “Strike!” Carver calls, because they’re not hooked up to the reader and because  he’s a fair sportsman, above all else—he can’t see Rutherford’s face, but the nod of acknowledgement reads as surprised. Carver salutes him briefly, and they’re off again.

Cass allows them three more rounds—two of which go to Rutherford before Carver takes the last with a strike to his opponent’s waist—and claps her hands perfunctorily. Carver lets his body relax and he yanks off his faceguard. “Well fought, sir. Cullen,” he amends, and Cullen is grinning when he pulls off his own mask in a tumble of sweat-damp curls.

“Well fought indeed. It’s been awhile since a journeyman’s landed a hit on me.” He holds out his hand for a shake. “Do you prefer the sabre, then?”

“It suits me,” Carver agrees. “I don’t mine epée or foil, but I mostly only use them when Rue and Pax need an extra partner.”

Cullen turns to include the others in his address. “We should settle that first, then. I also prefer sabre, though  can use a foil well enough, and I understand Cassandra specializes in epée. If the four of you are going to be on a demo team, you’re going to have to choose one specialization, perhaps two if you’re talented.”

“Foil,” Rue says immediately when he looks to her.

“Sabre,” is Barris’ preference, and Pax flounders a bit between epée and foil before Cullen waves him off.

“We’ll work at both until you decide. I only ask because, as a demo team, you will need to be able to demonstrate the pinnacle of your particular craft, and it’s easier to take one track rather than two or three. You all compete, I understand?”

They all nod, Carver a little more reluctantly than the others. He’s competed before, but rarely, especially as he’s built his work at the woodshop into something more stable. As a proper craftsman, he spends lots of his weekends at the ’shop, and it doesn’t leave much time for traveling or setting aside whole weekends for a fencing show. He’s hoping the demo team will be a little more flexible in that regard.

The rest of the lesson is intense. Cullen takes turns pairing off with each of them, demonstrating that his judgement of his own abilities as “well enough” is extremely underestimated: he faces off with Pax armed with a foil and neatly trounces him several times in a row before stopping to provide pointers. Then he has them duel one another in rotating pairs, noting where their strengths are and how they can push themselves against admittedly familiar opponents. Carver is grateful—he’s grown rather used to fencing against Barris considering their shared weapon preferences, and he knows he’s let himself get lazy in the last few months as their knowledge of the craft expands abreast of one another.

He skips a rinse after, preferring the intimacy of his own shower and his own shampoo, and he’s nearly out the door when Alistair’s voice pulls him up short. “Hey Carv, you got a minute?”

He waves goodbye to Rue and turns around to watch as Al jogs over. “Sure, what’s up?”

“Listen, your buddy—Fenris? Short dark guy, white hair and tattoos?”

“I might have heard of him,” Carver smirk, tugging on his sweat-soaked collar. “What’s up?”

“He does photography, right?”

“Yeah, on the side. If the project is interesting enough. Why?”

“I’m speaking at the Charity Gala—again, I know, what can I say? I’m a crowd-pleaser—and the photography team we booked bugged out a couple of days ago. Do you think Fenris would like to take over?”

“One photographer for a huge event like that?” Carver asks, nonplussed. He isn’t surprised—Fen is really, really good, and Alistair has this thing where he likes to boost unknowns into the public eye—but this seems a bit extravagant even for him.

“There’ll be a videography team, but I wanted something more personal. Intimate. I know it’s a lot to ask, and it’s really last minute, but it’s for a good cause! And he’s gay, yeah?”

“Bi,” Carver answers automatically. Fenris is always very determined to highlight the distinction, and he respects it even if he doesn’t fall into that category himself. “Not that it matters. You of all people should know there’s more heterosexuals testing positive these days than otherwise.”

Alistair nods, a little of his perpetual good cheer fading. “I know. But it’s the history of it, you know. Hard to erase more than a decade of preconceptions from the public’s memory.”

“Right.” Carver hesitates, feeling awkward now. Stupid of him to be lecturing _Alistair_ on the subject, as if he weren’t one of the most high-profile HIV-positive heterosexuals in the UK. “Well, I’ll pass on your offer? Should I have him call?”

“Yeah—hang on, let me get you my card to give him, in case he doesn’t have my personal number.” He passes it over, and shakes Carver’s hand briefly afterward, smiling. “Thanks for doing this, I appreciate it.”

“No problem, I’ll pass it on.”

Fenris isn’t at his place when he gets there, so he showers _again_ in his own bath and lies on his couch to compose a text. _You want a sweet photo gig for Dec. 20?_

 _Details_ , comes the return text less than a minute later. Carver grins.

_Charity Gala for AIDS Awareness. Knight Club is co-hosting this year, Al’s speaking and they need a photographer._

_one photographer for an event like that? they better be paying bank_

Carver texts him the number on the card, though it’s one he has stored on his own phone, and adds, _Al’s personal number. didn’t ask about the $ but you know it’s gotta be good._

Fenris doesn’t text back right away, and Carver amuses himself with a game of online chess—which he’s still terrible at, but at least the bots don’t mock him for it like his sisters do—until the reply comes in about half an hour later. _wanna be my date, babe?_

Oh, great. This was not part of the plan. _I knew u’d see the light,_ he texts back, though a second message is quick on its heels: _i don’t think i even own a complete suit_

_neither do i. that’s what rentals are for, yeah?_

His thumbs hesitate over the screen. He wants to ask how much they’re paying, but it feels intrusive, even though he helped arrange the whole thing. _I want a cut_ , he says at last, smirking when the reply comes in.

 _I’m not bribing u to follow me around like a lost puppy and eat too much foie gras._ Then, as if reconsidering, _i’ll make you dinner._

_two dinners._

_they’re going to have really excellent drinks. for free. i won’t even make you socialize, u can just carry my equipment and look pretty._

_one dinner and a bottle of crown royal._

_deal_

Carver hits send and throws his phone to the other end of the futon with a dramatic groan. He’s _so_ going to regret this. 

/

On Tuesday he forgoes Harold’s for the promise of cheesy toasts, Bethy style—loaded with butter and cream cheese under a layer of crispy, cheddary goodness. Heart attack on a bagel. Delicious. When he arrives, their mum is upstairs, singing to herself as she scrubs the bathroom, and Bethy’s in the kitchen waiting for the toaster oven to do its work. The molten cheese smell fills the room, and Carver tussles her lightly with an arm around her waist in greeting.

“Yum, smells amazing.”

She doesn’t really react to his playacting, just keeps her eyes on the oven. Carver steps back. “Everything okay?”

“I’m not that hungry,” she says quietly, and that’s the first clue. He takes a closer look—her face is drawn and a little pale, sleepless bruises hanging heavily under her pretty robin’s-egg eyes.

“Not feeling good?” He pets her hair back from her face, and her skin is a bit clammy to the touch. “You should’ve said.”

“I’m just tired.” She smiles gamely and swats at his hand. “Go wash up, you have cat hair all over you.”

It seems a cruel twist of fate that Carver is the twin without the cat allergy, while Bethy is the one who actually _likes_ cats. Peaches was sort of an accident. When he first moved into his apartment the year before, he noticed a stray cat hanging around the building. Like any sane person, he left it well enough alone, because feral cats have fleas and worms and things, and anyway he wasn’t much of an animal person. Then winter had fallen, quite harshly—not much snow, but inches and inches of icy rainfall lashing the windows and overflowing the gutters, leaving behind rimes of frost blackened with smog and city grit. One evening he came home in the middle of a deluge, using a melting newspaper for an umbrella, and the cat was there on the doorstep, shivering and miserable. He tucked her under his arm and smuggled her inside, and the rest was history.

He mulls over his as he washes his hands thoroughly and pats them dry, mind swinging lazily from thought to thought as it’s wont to do first thing in the morning. He can hear his mum upstairs, creaking around on the old floors, and the scuff of Bethy’s slippers in the kitchen. He wonders idly if he should suggest she lie down for a bit. His stomach rumbles, interrupting his train of thought, and he makes his way back through the living room.

“Carv?” It’s Bethy, voice faint even though she’s just around the corner. A little pang of warning shivers through him. When he steps into the kitchen, Beth is leaning against the table, her face pale and her eyes unfocused. Carver palms his phone and puts his arm around her shoulders, coaxing her down into one of the chairs and kneeling at her feet. “Hey. You don’t look so good.” His fingers find her pulse, erratic and fluttering weakly in the vulnerable hollow of her wrist.

“I don’t feel good.”

“You’re not gonna puke on me, are you?” It wouldn’t be the first time, honestly—he’s more worried about the side-effects of her new medication, now running like a silent film through the back of his mind. “You wanna go to the hospital?”

She hesitates, then nods, lips pinched and faintly blue. “Carv, I think…”

“Yeah?”

She blinks back tears. “I’m sorry.”

Then she _does_ throw up on him—well, mostly on herself and on the floor between his knees. Carver barely has time to shout for his mum before she bangs down the stairs and takes charge of the situation. She sends Carver for a change of clothes and dials 999, and by the time he’s switched jeans and thrown Bethy’s soiled hoodie into the laundry basket, the paramedics are at the door.

It’s only when the ambulance doors finally close behind them that the terror hits. He sits on the couch with his head between his knees for a while, just breathing, and when he’s got a better hold of himself he slams out of the house and into his mum’s car. The drive to the hospital is a blur of traffic stops and constantly checking his phone, again, again, again—nothing. He pulls into the car park and fumbles for change _._ Oh, fuck. Bethy. His twin sister could be having a fucking _heart attack_ and he’s here with his forehead on the steering wheel and his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps like a fucking idiot. He grips the wheel in both hands and breathes. A minute passes. Two. He gets out of the car, locks it, walks numbly to the waiting room with the keys jingling foreign in his pocket. His mum’s got a rabbit foot hanging off the keychain, and he rubs it between thumb and forefinger and wonders when she started believing in superstitious nonsense instead of prayer.

He’s sat in the waiting room a little while later, still crashing from the adrenaline rush. He can barely feel his fingertips. He wants to eat something, he thinks, but the thought of food makes his stomach turn and his palms sweat, so he concentrates on sitting still and breathing until the panic recedes wave by wave into something more manageable. His phone buzzes. Mum.

_she’s stable_

A few minutes later, she emerges from the swinging double doors with a look of wan bemusement on her face. She turns Carver’s way when he hails her, and sits beside him with a thready sigh. “She’ll be all right. They’re not even keeping her overnight. Bad reaction to her new medication. No one’s fault.”

“Someone’s fault,” Carver says through numb lips, but she just pats his hand, then holds it tightly. They both unwind together for a little while longer before she stirs again.

“You should go home. Or to the ’shop. Goodness knows there needn’t be two of us sitting here twiddling our thumbs.”

Carver shakes his head slowly, pendulously. There’s something tickling at the back of his mind, something nagging for his attention, but the horrible thrill of fear when Bethy practically collapsed has washed it all away. “You should go, Mum, it’s all right. I don’t think I have anything on.”

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. Incoming call. He wants to swallow his tongue, but his mother just laughs and pats his thigh. “Go on, take it. It’s probably something very important you’ve forgotten.”

He answers automatically, without looking at the screen. “Carver Hawke, how can I help you?” His own voice sounds eerily detached in his ears: polite and even, as if his whole world wasn’t just turned on its head and shaken violently. On the other end of the line, there’s a soft throat-clearing.

“Er, hello. Felix Alexius, here. I only wanted to be sure I hadn’t mistaken the time of our appointment…?”

And it all comes rushing back. Carver rubs his face with one hand and tries not to groan aloud. “Felix. Of course. I’m so sorry, how terribly late am I?”

“Fifteen minutes or so,” comes the gentle rejoinder. He doesn’t sound upset at all, or accusatory. If anything, he sounds… “Is everything all right?” … _concerned_?

“I, er. Yeah, sort of. There was a bit of a family emergency, but everything’s fine.” As fine as it gets when you’re sitting in a hospital waiting room, that is. “I’m sort of close, I can be there in about ten minutes if you’re still willing to wait.”

“Of course.” He sounds surprised, and maybe a little uncertain when he adds, “But don’t go out of your way on my account, please. If you need to be with your family, that’s completely understandable. I’m perfectly happy to reschedule.”

Carver glances over at his mum, who’s listening in on the conversation and making little shooing motions with her hands. “It’s all right, I, ah, I’m not really needed here. And rescheduling would be a nightmare, frankly, especially if you wanted me to get any work done at all before the new year.”

“If you’re absolutely sure.”

“I am. I’ll see you in ten, Felix.”

He hangs up. His mother is looking at him with raised eyebrows and oh, God, here we go. “That was _Felix_ , then? Oh no, was your appointment today?”

“Yeah—still is, actually. I’m meeting him at Harold’s.”

Her eyes are sparkling in spite of the tired lines that strain their corners. “He sounds nice.”

“ _Mum_.”

“Yes, all right, message received and understood. I won’t pry.” She pats his arm consolingly, which she knows he hates, and smiles benignly. “Do enjoy your coffee date with this… _client_ , sweetheart.”

“I will, thanks.” He stands up, grateful the Alexius file is still safely ensconced in the car. He’d been prepared at some point today, before everything went to hell. “Can I get you anything while I’m at Harold’s? Pastry, tea?”

“Some rooibos would be nice, dear. Thank you.” She lets him kiss her cheek, and he drags himself out the door and tries to plaster on his best _not on the verge of an emotional breakdown_ face.

He drives to the café in a bit of a daze and parks across the street. Through the windshield he can see the Harold’s storefront, two glass panes with a jaunty red door in between, and an aged sign spanning the width of the store that reads _Harold’s Rest Café and Bakeshop._ Just inside, sitting at a table near the window with his phone out and a small smile on his face, is Felix. He looks… good. Calm. He’s not wearing his jacket—Carver can see it slung over the back of his chair—but he’s got his thick red scarf around his neck and a pair of glasses pushed up into his buzzed hair. Adorable. Carver takes a breath and gets out of the car.

Cinnamon and coffee slap him gently in the face as he pushes his way inside, heralded by the tinkling of the little bell positioned just so above the door. It’s almost unbearably warm after the chill outside—he’d forgotten to turn the heat on in the car on his way over—so he shrugs out of his coat as he sidles the few feet to Felix’s table. “Hey. Sorry I’m so late.”

“Oh!” Felix looks up from his phone so quickly his glasses bump abruptly down from his head to the very tip of his nose, making him look, for a brief moment, like a parody of an elderly man. Carver holds back a snort. “Hello. You got here quickly.” He pushes the glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. They’re tortoiseshell, dark and flecked with pebbles of amber, and they sit well against his tawny skin.

“Not really,” Carver says. Realizing that sounds sort of brusque and cold, he quickly adds, “I’m really sorry about this, I’m usually more professional.”

“Think nothing of it.” Felix pushes back from his table, smiling that serene smile, and all the apologies pushing at Carver’s lips melt away into silence. “Let me get your drink. What do you like?”

Baffled by Felix’s easy friendliness, Carver trails after him to the counter. It’s not Cole this time, but Kieran, a dark-haired, sallow-skinned boy who seems to work very infrequently but always makes excellent coffee. He doesn’t know Carver’s usual, so Carver tells him, and Felix pays for both of them before he can summon up a protest.

“You don’t have to,” he begins belatedly, as Felix is tucking his wallet into his back pocket. His cuff rides up as he does so, and Carver catches a glimpse of black ink against a splash of color. Does he have a sleeve? Carver runs his eyes over him again, appraisingly, but Felix’s jumper reveals nothing of the body underneath besides its general slim, lanky shape. Felix turns around and he snaps his eyes back to his face.

“It’s no trouble. Shall we sit?”

Harold’s is nothing if not timely, and in a few minutes they’re fully ensconced at the table by the window, big ceramic mugs steaming gently in front of them as Carver produces the fruits of his labors.  “I could go a few different ways with this,” he says, spreading out a few scans of his larger drafting sketches. “You said you liked the nature motif, so I went with that, but you also said something about built-in shelving? So I did a little mock-up of that here.”

Felix bends over, nose nearly to the paper in fascination. The glasses are slipping again. “This is fantastic. So much detail!” He draws a finger over the sketch Carver is (privately) most fond of: a mirrored shelving unit with a hasty suggestion of a fireplace in between. A bit decadent, but knowing Felix’s background, he won’t be surprised if this “friend” of his is the sort to have fireplaces in his new house. They’re meant to be built into the wall, framed in twisting vines that seems to lift the shelves up under their ethereal weight. A few harsh lines hint at books lined neatly on the shelves, and Carver wistfully imagines the warm light of a roaring fire licking along their gilt-edged spines.

“I was thinking of glass panes on the doors,” he says, indicating a business card he’s stapled to the top corner of the paper. “Trevelyan Glass does really nice work, we’ve partnered with them before on some bigger projects.”

“This is all wonderful.” Felix sits back in his chair, and Carver can practically hear the _but_ lingering on his lips. “There’s just one problem—well, not a _problem_ , per se, but it turns out this might be a little more complicated than I thought. The place my friend is moving into is… a bit of a special case. He’s renting half of a historical home on the understanding that whatever renovations he does have to be in line with the house’s aesthetic. Which, it’s a bit higgledy-piggeldy—the structure itself was built in the early Victorian era, but whoever it was had an obsession with medieval architecture, and the people who came after made some very _strange_ renovation choices. But even so, the owner is… picky. To say the least.” He has a look on his face like he’s remembering a very specific incident, and Carver swallows back a sigh. More complications.

“So it’s a historical landmark kind of thing?” he elaborates.

“Sort of. The government chips in for bigger things like roof repair and whatnot, but the finer details are mostly up to Dorian, as long as the owner approves. He loves it, of course, that’s why he took the deal, but it means he has to abide by certain design elements when doing anything… permanent. There are no modern fixtures allowed unless they’re made with period-accurate materials, and the big renovations have to be put down in writing and signed by about ten people before they can get the go-ahead.”

Carver’s head is already spinning. “It sounds like a logistical nightmare.”

“I understand if you’d rather not take the commission…”

“Oh, it’s not that. And I’ve already taken it—you’ve signed the paperwork, I’ve signed the paperwork, it’s a go. But I’ll probably need to take a look at the place myself, speak to the owner if he’s available. As soon as possible, preferably, get the measurements while I’m at it.” He’s already typing out a text to his mum, and another to Stroud inquiring about company procedures for projects like this. No need to go in blind. “How long do you think it would take to look at the house? Even if the owner isn’t there, I could get a better idea of what would suit the…” he double-checks the paperwork in question, “…uh, parlor.” The _parlor_. This Dorian must be an enormous ponce.

Felix is obviously taken aback. “Right now?”

“Why not?” _Bethy’s fine, you’re fine, everything’s going to be okay._ “Unless you’re busy, obviously.”

“But what about your… family situation?”

And he’s been doing such a good job of not thinking about it. Sort of. “It’s fine. It’s… under control.” He shrugs his shoulders awkwardly. “My mum’s with her. My sister, that is, she… was admitted to the hospital earlier today.”

Felix’s face transforms, but not with that awful, saccharine expression that most people get when they feel badly for you but have no idea how to relate. His sparkling wine-dark eyes grow serious and he leans lightly across the table, soft with understanding. “Carver. Truly, if you need to be at the hospital, don’t make any concessions for me. I can wait ’til after Christmas, even after the New Year if need be. This project is hardly life-threatening.”

Carver rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s… I’d prefer to keep busy, actually. Better than sitting all day in the waiting room just for them to tell us what we already know. She’ll be all right, anyway. Just a medication mix-up.”

“All right then. Let me just make a few calls.” Felix pushes back from the table and picks up his cup, replaces the lid, and Carver suddenly remembers he was going to get his mum tea.

“Just a minute, I’ve got to grab something to tide my mum over.”

“Sure.” Felix shrugs into his jacket. “Shall I drive, since I know the way?”

Carver nods agreement and goes to the till. He picks out a raspberry pastry and the rooibos for his mum, and follows Felix out into the crisp, watery sunshine. Felix doesn’t ask directions, which is telling, and parks in one of the rarely-available on-street parking slots a short distance from the doors. Carver’s heart sinks. Next to the glaring 20 MINUTE PARKING sign stands his mother, bundled in her bright red wool coat and smoking a cigarette.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters under his breath. At Felix’s questioning noise he explains, “She’s not supposed to be smoking. Be right back.”

When he slips out of the car—a sleek silver Aston Martin, because of fucking _course_ —she stubs out the cigarette guiltily and her eyes slip curiously to the unfamiliar car and the unfamiliar man in the driver’s seat. Carver neatly side-steps into her line of vision and holds out the tea and pastry, mouth set.

“What was that, Mum?”

“Just a little stress relief,” she murmurs, but she trades the half-smoke for the tea and doesn’t complain when he grinds it into powder beneath his heel. “Sorry, love.”

“I thought you quit years ago.”

“I did. It was just half.” She inhales the rooibos steam and sighs contentedly. He catches a whiff of nicotine and wrinkles his nose. “So that’s _Felix_ , is it?”

“Yes.”

“Nice of him to give you a lift.”

“We’re headed to his friend’s house,” Carver explains, answering the unspoken question. “The one he’s commissioning the bookshelf for—well, bookcase. It’s a special restoration project, I guess, so I need to get a better idea of the house’s design elements.”

“Well, have fun, dear.” She nibbles at the pastry and closes her eyes blissfully. “I want all the details when I see you again.”

Carver blows out a sigh, doesn’t answer. Still, he kisses her cheek briefly before he returns to the car.

/

Felix has never been more grateful for his inherited ability to carry on a conversation with literally anyone than he is right now.  Carver is understandably taciturn in the car, even more so than the first day they met, but Felix isn’t put off. He’s familiar with the numb silence that follows the sudden, gut-clenching drop of bad news. And Carver, in turn, doesn’t seem put off by his idle, friendly chatter—he almost seems relieved, in fact, that Felix is able to fill the silence with casual discussion of the house, the reno, and Dorian’s overwhelmingly can-do attitude when faced with the stupidly large number of things still to be completed by Christmas.

“It’s the unofficial move-in date,” he explains when Carver makes some noise about the unusual time of year. “It’s the only time everyone’s going to be in London at the same time.”

“Can you even rent moving vans on Christmas Eve?”

“A family friend is providing his flatbed, and the contractor has agreed to send over some of his guys as a personal favor. My family and Dorian’s don’t really celebrate Christmas, anyway, so it’s not a huge issue.”

“You don’t celebrate Christmas?” Carver blurts, the first thing he’s said to properly engage with Felix’s rambling discourse. Then, quickly enough that Felix barely even has time to think _oh, god, here we go again_ , “I mean, my family doesn’t either, I’m just surprised to find someone else in the same boat. My family’s Jewish,” he explains when Felix makes a querying noise. “I’m not practicing, myself, but I still do Chanukkah and Rosh Hashanah with my mum and sisters. You?”

“I’m not anything in particular, religion-wise, but we didn’t celebrate Christmas growing up. Dad’s parents are Lebanese, I still have some extended family there, and my mum’s parents came over from India, so not a lot of traditional Christian influence I guess. I don’t know as much about either side as I wish I did—my parents are sort of estranged from _their_ parents, and from each other. They divorced when I was a kid.”

“I’m sorry,” Carver says, briefly but sincerely.

“It’s all right. It wasn’t really as traumatic as everyone tells you it’s supposed to be. If they fought, they kept it quiet—just sat me down one day and said Mum was getting her own place, and I could visit whenever I wanted but I’d be living with Dad.” He laughs self-consciously. “Sorry, getting my life story here. What about you? Your accent isn’t entirely Brit, is it?”

“I'm a bit of a mutt myself,” Carver says, sort of evasively—trying to be polite, but clearly not up to Felix’s levels of oversharing. “Da was Canadian.”

The _was_ sticks out of that sentence like a sore thumb, and Felix realizes he’s walked straight into a do-not-enter zone. Thankfully he’s spared the awkward silence by their arrival at Dorian’s. The place is mostly empty, Dorian and Solas both occupied with on-campus duties, and only Cullen’s battered Range Rover is parked in the dual carriage driveway. Felix pulls up behind it and kills the gas. “Well, here we are.”

Carver stares out the passenger window with an open mouth, and Felix looks too, seeing it again as if for the first time through Carver’s eyes. Maybe describing it as an “apartment” had been a bit… deceptive. From where they sit on the left side of the house, it’s more of a mansion, with dark brick walls and spiked wrought-iron turrets reaching toward the sky as if in warning, and a wide front porch curling around a round tower heavily studded with stained-glass windows. Further along is the side door, which will get more use than the public main entrance once Dorian and Cullen have finished moving in, flanked on the far side by the greenhouse. A narrow fenced-in walkway spans the width of the third floor from tower to turret, and the perfectly groomed lawn rolls down to the quiet-moving river just beyond.

It’s very quiet in the car. Felix clears his throat, and Carver actually jumps in his seat before looking around, pale skin flaming pink. “Uh, you said it was an apartment?”

“Half-house,” Felix reminds him quietly, trying not to giggle. “Oh, good, Cullen saw us pull in.”

He escapes the car as Cullen emerges from the side-entrance, the sleeves of his flannel shirt pushed up to make room for rubber work gloves. He pulls them off as they approach and holds one hand out for Carver to shake. “Hello again, Hawke. Didn’t I just see you the other day?”

Felix belatedly remembers they move in the same circles. “You know each other?”

“I served with his cousin for a bit,” Cullen reminds him, as if he didn’t just share this particular detail the week before. “And he’s in my fencing class.”

Felix swings around. “You fence?”

“Er, yeah.”

“He’s quite good,” Cullen says, clearly enjoying himself immensely. “He’s on the demo team at the Knight Club. But come on in, it’s too cold to stand out here making small talk. You wanted to see the sitting room, right?”

With a wave of his hand, Cullen ushers them inside. It’s not too much warmer inside than out, given recent work on the furnace, and Felix tucks his hands into his coat pockets as they walk single-file through the twisting hallways. The wallpaper has finally been stripped, and half-full pots of primer and spools of painter’s tape are stacked at even intervals, drop cloths rustling underfoot as they pass. It’s a very humble second impression after the initial shock and awe, and Felix hopes Carver’s no longer quite so intimidated.

They spill into the sitting-room suddenly, and Felix lingers behind to take it in. It’s been overhauled since the last time he saw it, with restored sage-and-cream wallpaper and gleaming honey-toned floorboards. There’s even an armchair pushed against the far wall, a lovely antique mustard velvet, with one of the many boxes full of books in front of it like a makeshift footstool. There’s a few dusty boards propped up next to it—the remnants of a failed IKEA project which Felix suspects was meant to be a bookshelf. He feels a warm glow of anticipation at the look on Dorian’s face when he realizes what Felix is getting him for his birthday, and smiles.

“I see,” Carver is saying, drawing his attention around to the fireplace. It’s been cleaned and swept since he last saw it, and the heavy oak mantle is free of dust and grime, although there’s still a terrific split across the center. Carver runs a hand over it lightly. “I could fix this for you, if you wanted. But for the shelves—either side of the fireplace, yeah?” He touches his fingertips lightly to the papered walls as if feeling out the space for himself. “Do you have a measuring tape?”

Cullen hands one over and Felix tucks his chin into his scarf to watch. For such a tall, broad man, Carver moves with surprising grace. His fingers manipulate the measuring tape without fumbling, and he mutters numbers to himself under his breath before pausing to jot them down in a small notepad he miraculously pulls from the rear pocket of his jeans. Felix might be blushing a bit. He glances over at Cullen, who is watching him watch Carver, and now he’s _definitely_ blushing. He silently thanks his mother for his dark complexion and frowns back at Cullen meaningfully. _Cut it out._

“All right,” Carver says. Felix straightens out of his crotchety hunchback pose so quickly he twigs something in his neck. “I’ve got the measurements. And this mantle really is something, I can pull some design elements from the patterns here.”

“I don’t know what Dorian was intending to do with it,” Cullen puts in. “I think fixing it is fairly low priority, at the moment, but maybe after Christmas you can take a look? If our contractor doesn’t mind, that is.”

“Sure.” Someone’s phone buzzes. They all reach instinctively for their pockets, but it’s Carver who pulls his out to answer it. “Excuse me just a minute.”

He drifts into the hallway to take the call and Cullen sidles over to Felix with a knowing look on his face. “Please stop,” Felix says before he can open his mouth. He clamps down on the little spark of humor bubbling under his tongue. “Listen, it’s not a good time. His sister’s in hospital.”

The color drains from Cullen’s admittedly already-pale face. “What?”

“It’s not too terribly serious, as far as I know,” Felix says, keeping his voice low. “But… no teasing. Please. Not right now.”

“I’ll refrain then,” Cullen murmurs. He sighs. “And I had such a witty one-liner planned. Dorian would have been proud.”

“Dorian would have missed it,” Felix says tartly, “and you wouldn’t have been allowed to tell him later, anyway. Carver was never here, remember?”

“I was what?” Carver steps back into the room, looking relaxed and mildly amused.

“He’s reminding me that this commission is very top secret,” Cullen explains. “Which reminds me, I believe Dorian is due home in another half-hour, so if you’d like a tour we’d better keep it brief.”

“No, this is fine. I’d rather not risk the top secret commission.” Carver smiles briefly at Felix, as if sharing a private joke, and Felix bites his tongue to keep from smiling too wide and foolishly in return. “If I could just snap a few photos?”

“Oh, sure, go ahead.”

Carver still has his phone out and he starts taking pictures of the mantle and the room’s other woodwork. Felix hasn’t paid much attention to it before, but he realizes all the window-frames and baseboards have a similar motif, sort of a twisting Celtic knot with a leaf stamp. “I just talked to my boss on the phone,” Carver says as he take a few photos of the mantle. “We’ve got special paperwork for historical reno projects like this. If I give it to Felix I assume he can get it to you?”

“Sure,” Cullen agrees. “Or if all else fails, I’ll see you on the weekend for fencing.”

“Oh, right!” Carver laughs, a little self-deprecating. “It’s not too urgent, I just need it on file by December 28th before I start cutting into any wood.” He slips his mobile back into his pocket and looks at Felix expectantly.

“Well! I guess we’re off. Thanks for letting us interrupt you.”

Cullen waves him off. “No trouble. It’s good to take a break now and then, before the paint fumes start getting to me.”

He sees them out, and as Felix climbs into the car he gets a text from Cullen. _I don’t know what you were thinking. I’ve never seen a less straight man in my life._

Felix scowls briefly at it and puts it away before Carver can glance over and, in some freak accident of angle and unfortunate timing, read the message. “Shall I drop you at the hospital, then?”

“The woodshop is fine,” comes the serene response. He’s looking at his phone when Felix glances over, typing out a message of his own. “I can walk to the café from there, and get you the paperwork in the meantime.”

“Sure.” Felix starts the car and pulls out of the driveway, and the silence that falls between them for the rest of the drive is entirely comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I update once a week, on Sundays unless I'm feeling ambitious. For fic updates, snippets during the week, and general rare pair flailing, follow me on tumblr @erebones :)


	4. 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is MEGA LONG, thanks for being so patient with me! hope you enjoy :)
> 
> warnings: alcohol consumption, smoking

“Shut. _Up_.”

Carver stares at her. “What?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Bethany drawls, eyes wide. “Just that you scored a ticket to the biggest, glitziest charity event of the season and didn't even TELL ME.”

“I'm telling you now!” Carver says, aggrieved. “I didn't realize it was such a big deal, I would've told Fen to bring you instead. It's not like _I_ want to go. In fact, I'll call him right now, you can have my ticket.”

“Oh, no no no. I couldn't break your date with Fenris.” She's smirking. Damn her. “I'll just watch it from home like I always do and text you constantly.”

Filled with horror, Carver slumps lower into the couch cushions. “This thing is _televised_?”

“Um, yeah! Where have you been for the past six years? Shani practically co-founded it, she's been a guest speaker twice. Mum and I like to watch and judge everyone's outfits.”

“Oh, God. I thought it was just dinner and dancing.”

“It is. But it's _so much more_.” She slips back on the couch dreamily. Then she jackknifes upright with an inhuman screech and grabs his arm. “Carv! If Maevaris Tilani is there, you _have_ to get her autograph.”

Carver groans. “I'm probably going to be seated at the arse end of the room and won't actually talk to anyone. But if I get the opportunity, I'll _try_. Okay?”

“Deal. But I'll be watching, and I'll know if you're slacking.”

“Joke's on you, sis, my date is the cameraman. He'll just tell me where to stand so I don't have to make a fool of myself on public television.”

Beth gets a speculative look in her eyes. “Speaking of making a fool of yourself... what are you wearing?”

Oh, God no. “I hadn't thought that far ahead.”

Bethy's eyes pop comically. “ _Ahead_? Are you kidding me? The gala's in two weeks, that's barely enough time to rent a suit.”

“I have a suit,” Carver protests lamely, even though the last time he wore it was to Marian's promotion dinner and even then it was a little snug around the shoulders. Fencing has kept him mostly trim, but alas for his father's woodsman shoulders.

Bethany makes false weeping sounds into a pillow until Carver smacks her shoulder. “You're killing me. That old thing? It's fucking _ancient_. And I know you'd never spring for a new tux, so rental it is. I'm going to ask Shan, she knows all about these things.”

In a trice she has her phone out and is firing off a text to their cousin at the speed of light while Carver lays back in passive misery, wondering how he dug himself such a deep hole. Thinking of Shani reminds him of something, though, so he lifts his head long enough to croak, “Hey Beth, is Cullen Rutherford gay?”

She blinks up at him owlishly from her mobile. “Is who what now?”

“You know, Shani's buddy from the military academy.”

“Cullen... oh! Yeah, I think I met him once. I don't think he's gay, no. Why?” Her eyes glitter interestedly. “Poaching our cousin's friends now?”

“What? No! Jesus, Bethy, why does every innocent question have to have an ulterior motive?”

“I know, I know. Sorry.” Her mobile trills, diverting her attention. “Yes! Shan says she'll take us shopping.”

“ _Us?_ ”

“Of course. I'm coming along for moral support.”

He's not sure it's the kind of moral support he needs, but he also knows it will be extremely difficult to dissuade her. “Are you sure? I mean, are you well enough?”

Ah, shit. She's giving him the stop-treating-me-like-an-invalid stare. “Carver. I know you're protective of me, but I'm _fine_. I haven’t passed out for a whole ten weeks.”

He winces. “I know, I just...”

“...have a complex. I know.” She's sort of teasing. Sort of. She leans forward on the couch, going serious for a minute. “Are you still seeing your therapist, Carv?”

“Are _you_?” he retorts, more snippily than she deserves.

“Yes, actually. Doctor Orsino has been very helpful. And that wasn't an answer.”

“I'm... seeing someone, yeah.” Merrill counts, right? He's opened up to her more than he ever did to his awful shrink, and he thinks it's helped. Helping. “Not Doctor Samson. But someone.”

Bethy sighs. “Right. Well.” She smiles, a bit tiredly. “I'm coming, so get used to it.”

“Great. Sounds like fun.”

“Hah. No need to look like you're about to be put on the torture rack. It's just _Shani_.”

Honestly, Carver is relieved that Beth’s enlisting Shan's help instead of Marian's. Mare's the real fashion guru of the family, rubbing shoulders with more of the city's elite in a day than Carver sees on the telly in a week, but he doesn't trust her not to put him in something utterly embarrassing. At least Shani and Beth will get the job done, even if the process is agonizingly painful.

Maybe it will be less painful if he has backup. He opens a new text message to Fenris. _Please come get your suit with me and protect me from the maelstrom that is Bethy._

The reply comes almost right away. He must be off work _.  Are you serious? Hawke, I got my suit finished last week._ There's a picture attached: Fenris standing in a fitting room with a red carpet underfoot. The angle of the camera makes him look even slimmer than usual, and the suit fits him like a black glove, from his matte-finish oxfords to the velvety waistcoat peeking out from under the jacket. The shirt beneath is crisp white, with a white bow tie around his neck and a black silk handkerchief folded expertly in the breast pocket. Carver's jaw drops.

_well fuck. I have to compete with THAT?_

_ha. not compete, darling, just match. if you can_

“I've been issued a challenge,” he says, dropping his phone in Bethy's lap.

“Ooohhh Fen!! He looks so good!” She snatches the phone up and peers at it critically. “Oh, yes. This is perfect for him. And it’ll be easy to match you. I’m thinking all black, no tie because you’ll just be pulling at it all evening…” Carver interrupts her with a dying beached-whale sound and she kicks at him with her socked foot. “Carv, I'm hungry, go get me some crackers.”

“Ughhh fine.” He makes a show of dragging himself to the kitchen, banging around with pots and pans and running the kitchen sink, but Bethy ignores him. When he comes back with a plate of cheesy nachos and a tall glass of apple juice, she smooches him on the cheek.

“Thank you baby brother. Ergh, what are you doing, growing sandpaper on your face?”

“Yeah, it's a new woodworking technique. I can sand things with my manly jaw now.” He returns her deadpan stare innocently. “What?”

“You know, if you grow a beard I bet you'd look just like Dad.”

The pit of his stomach does something funny—it goes cold and tight, and sort of fluttery, like he's been paid the world's most backhanded compliment. Maybe he has. “I probably won't keep it,” he mumbles. Bethy pats his knee.

“I think you'd look very dashing. But it's your face, so I'm not going to be the one kissing it.”

Carver rears back. “What? No one’s going to be kissing anything! C'mon, Boo, you _know_ Fenris and I aren't—”

“Oh no, no, I know _that_. I meant your _client_.”

Goddammit. “What has mum been saying?”

“Nothing, actually,” Beth says brightly. “It was Fenris.”

He repeats— _goddammit._ “I’m going to kill him.” He rescues his phone and opens a new text. _I’m going to kill you_

_what did i do now_

_you’ve been talking. Bethy knows too much_

_oh are we talking about manicure boy? sorry didn’t know that was a secret._

Beth is smirking. “I can’t believe you told Mum before you told _me_.” She doesn’t sound at all put out about this fact.

“There’s nothing to tell!” Carver exclaims.

“All right, all right. Keep your pants on. Why were you asking about Cullen, anyway?”

Thrown off by the sudden switch in conversation topic, Carver racks his brain for a bit before answering. “Oh! So this commission I’m doing— _not a word_ —is a birthday present for this guy’s friend, Dorian. But when I went to the house to take a look at the woodwork that’s already there, Cullen was there doing some reno work.”

“Mutual friend?” Bethy suggests. “I dunno, ask Shan. You have her number, too, I’m not your researcher.”

Carver just grunts. It feels intrusive and out of the blue to just ask, especially since he doesn’t talk to his cousin all that much. “When are we doing this, then? This… shopping spree.” He shudders.

Bethy’s grin wouldn’t be out of place on a shark about to strike. “Tomorrow.”

/

Carver is reminded of how long it’s been since he’s seen Shani when she bounces out of the cab to greet them in front of Debenhams. Her long black braid has been chopped into something short and chic, and Bethany spends some time fawning over it while Carver stands on the sidewalk and sighs bored white breaths into the chilly air. When Shan comes over to him, she’s as shockingly short as ever, and her belly swells roundly from the open plackets of her coat in comparison.

“Well if isn’t my second-favorite cousin!” she declares, laughing at Carver’s answering huff. “It’s good to see you, Carver.”

“You too,” he says, granting her a one-armed hug. She smells peachy and warm, and her grip around his waist is strong, if brief. “How’s baby?”

“Oh, fine. Kicks like a fiend, but that’s to be expected considering the father.”

“Boy or girl?” Bethany asks eagerly.

“It’s a surprise,” replies Shani, eyes sparkling. “Sorry, kitten. But we have a list of names up for a poll if you want to put in your two cents. I’ll email you.” She laces her arm through Carver’s elbow, coaxing him in the direction of the shops. “C’mon, big guy. Quick and painless, yeah?”

It’s neither quick nor painless, but he’s man enough to admit it could be worse. Shani takes charge, delegating Bethy to picking out shirts and ties and socks, of all things, and he’s made to stand in an open-walled dressing room in his vest and smalls while a moustachey little fellow takes his measurements with tape. The adjustments will only take a few minutes, so he puts up with a whirlwind of accessories in various shades of black before Shani finally declares him “suitable.”

The final effect _is_ rather dashing. He wriggles his stockinged toes against the carpet as he looks himself over in the full-length mirror: the sleek three-piece suit sits precisely on his broad shoulders, with a velvety blue-black shirt that nearly disappears against the black of the suit jacket. He won the fight against the tie with Bethy at his side, and the topmost button is undone to give his Adam’s apple some breathing room. He fiddles with the jacket, buttoning and unbuttoning it a few times to get the feel, and turning about to check the fit of the trousers. Shani swats his arm, laughing.

“Your arse looks fantastic, Carver, don’t worry. Now let the nice man pack it away and let’s go get some lunch. I’m starving.”

“Eating for two?” he snarks, stepping into one of the changing stalls to gingerly remove each piece and hand them off to the attendant.

“Only bloody constantly. I out-ate Alistair on our last date night—I thought he was going to break down in tears right there at the table.” Her laughter peals out brightly even through the heavy velvet drapery that preserves his modesty, and he grins at the image as he buttons his jeans and tugs his jumper back over his head. “I swear the longer this goes the hungrier I get.”

“You’re due… when?” Carver asks, wincing internally. He feels like he’s asked this question before. He makes sure his hair is sort of lying flat and steps out to pay for the suit, trying not to look at the receipt.

“One more trimester to go,” Shani says, which answers nothing. He’ll have Bethy explain it later. “The tentative date is April third, but we’re hoping they come a few days late, because our donor is going to be out of the country until April eighth and he doesn’t want to miss it.”

“Isn’t it weird?”

“Is what weird? Oh, the donor? No, not at all.” Shani shakes her head so vigorously that her short black hair whaps against her cheeks. “Anders is a very old friend, and he was happy to be a part of this. Now if we’d asked _Cullen_ … that might have been weird, considering our history.”

Bethany throws Carver a smirking glance. “Oh, I thought Cullen Rutherford was _gay_.”

“What? Ha! No, definitely not—not if the horribly awkward crush he had on me in uni was any indication. I can see why you’d be confused, though, he’s very happily settled with some professor of history or something, I can’t remember his name…”

“Dorian,” Carver supplies absently. The picture he has of this man in his mind shifts yet again—from the very first time Felix mentioned his name, he’s been a blurred, faceless shape, vaguely tall, sometimes posh, sometimes reverting to something more bookish, with a pair of spectacles and a reedy voice. Now he’s trying to picture someone with whom his gruff yet friendly fencing instructor would shack up with, and the mental circles are wearing him out.

“Ah!” Shani exclaims. “Yes, that’s right. Dr. Dorian Pavus. How did you know?”

“Must have heard the name somewhere.” He looks over her head at Bethy and gives her a warning frown. She mimes zipping her lips shut and tossing away the key. “Does he still have the hots for you or something, then?”

“Who, Cullen? Probably not. But, y’know… memories. Not that we did this the old-fashioned way, but even so.”

“The old-fashioned way?” Carver echoes, mystified.

Bethany giggles. “Were you imagining a sordid threesome, brother?”

“Oh, god, no!” Shani laughs. It’s loud enough that it turns a few heads as they step out into the street, the girls arm-in-arm and Carver tagging along with his new suit slung over his arm in a canvas bag. “I love Anders, but not that much. No, we used a turkey baster.”

Carver squeezes his eyes shut. “Please stop, before I lose my appetite.”

“You’re no fun,” Beth complains, but she’s grinning fit to outshine the circles under her eyes, so Carver doesn’t mind being the butt of their joke.

“I’m lots of fun, in the right moment. At a café, for instance, where I can stuff my face while sitting next to a ravenous pregnant woman and not look weird.”

“You’re paying, by the way,” Shani says sweetly. “As thanks for informing your sartorial choices today.”

Carver sighs, thinking of his pocketbook. Then he remembers the cut he’s making off Felix’s commission—let alone the Christmas payments rolling in even now—and he shrugs off the worry. “All right then, ladies. Just point me in the right direction.”

/

Felix stands in front of the mirror in the upper hall of his father’s townhouse and brushes imaginary dust from the sleek black lapel of his suit jacket. He will never admit it to anyone but himself, but he’s nervous. Apart from a brief whirlwind introduction in the upstairs hall of Dorian’s house—which, admittedly, featured full-frontal body contact—he knows little to nothing about his dinner date. Even worse, he doesn’t know what’s expected of him, from Maxwell _or_ from his father. Is he supposed to be swept off his feet and carried into the sunset, or does Gereon simply hope Max will keep him occupied and out of trouble? He makes a face at his reflection and wonders if Qarina will be in attendance. Perhaps she will condescend to steal him away if Max turns out to be as dull as his dishwater hair.

“Now you’re just being rude,” he murmurs to himself. He touches the thin growth of beard he’s managed to cultivate in the past few weeks, turning his head side to side to admire it. It’s no match for the pristinely-kept moustache that Dorian favors, but it’s respectable enough. Sera had told him the other day that it made him look _distinguished_ , which is about as close to a compliment as he knows he’s likely to get from her.

Downstairs, the bell tolls solemnly. He can hear his father opening the door and greeting the Trevelyan twins, one of whom already has her date hanging off her arm—Seamus Dumar, whom Felix has met many times and has decided is so deeply in the closet the boy can barely see daylight. The evening already promises to be interesting. He makes sure his champagne-colored waistcoat sits evenly across his chest, buttons his jacket, and makes for the stairs.

In the vestibule, his father is saying something typically witty and charming, earning a round of laughter from their guests. Evy and Seamus are a pretty pair, young and fresh-faced, Evy draped in a slim black gown with little golden beads clustering along the short train and Seamus in matching black on black, a single golden tiepin tying him to his dinner date. Maxwell stands a little apart from them, hands in his pockets so that his jacket strains across the modest cut of his shoulders, a gleaming white smile firmly in place. His hair is combed over in traditional Eton fashion, and Felix suspects he’s wearing a touch of powder to hide the sprinkling of freckles across his perfect nose. Lovely. He pastes a smile on his own face as he reaches the ground floor and walks over to greet them.

“Evening, everyone. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Oh, we weren’t waiting.” Max takes his hand as soon as he’s with arm’s reach and leans in to kiss his cheek. Felix tries not to look too much like a startled hare. “It’s lovely to see you again, Felix.”

Gereon’s brows are sky-high. “I hadn’t realized you two were already acquainted.”

“Very briefly,” Maxwell assures him. He hasn’t let go of Felix’s hand. “You clean up well, I must say.”

“As do you,” Felix returns dryly, ignoring his father’s meaningful look. “Shall we?”

“Yes, of course.” Gereon passes Felix his coat and shrugs into his own, smooth as silk. “Wouldn’t do to be late.”

The drive to Gibson Hall is fairly quick and painless, and soon Felix is handing his overcoat to an attendant and presenting his ticket to the doorman. The live music has already begun, a light, understated prelude to the dinner, and people are milling about the tables without too much regard to seating yet, eager to catch up with familiar faces and present themselves before the royalty of high society. Felix falls more into the first category—he spies Dorian and Cullen arm-in-arm as they chat with Alistair Theirin and his petite, mildly pregnant wife—but Maxwell, alas, falls more into the second. Felix bids farewell to his father, who has gone off in search of his old school chums, and finds himself towed along into the crowd, smiling and nodding and shaking a hundred hands while their names slip in one ear and fall out the other decisively. His hand on Maxwell’s arm becomes more of a claw as the minutes wear down, and when the gong for dinner gently sounds, he breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

He’s in luck—they’re seated with the Theirins and a few other semi-familiar faces, who he tries a little harder to remember. An elderly couple, life-long sweethearts who introduce themselves as Winnie and Patricia, sit on his left, and he is regaled with many tales of Alistair as a young man, before his glory days on the Arsenal football team. Alistair and his wife sit opposite them, laughing frequently at the increasingly improbable tales they have to tell, and Felix is so enamored of Winnie’s dry humor that he almost forgets she’s one of the most powerful members of Parliament at present. Beside Mrs. Theirin sits a long-legged stork of a man, with a tired smile and a boutonnière of midnight-blue feathers, and a complicated last name that Felix will never be able to remember but Dorian likely knows the etymology of off the top of his head. He’s another of the keynote speakers this evening, a philanthropist and oncologist who specializes in pediatrics. Though he hasn’t brought a date, his table partner—a tall, stoic fellow named Ashaad—doesn’t seem overly interested in holding his attention, so he speaks mainly to Mrs. Theirin. The last couple sits on Maxwell’s right, Ser Bran Cavin and his wife, both of them sour-mouthed and disinclined to chatter. Maxwell is not at all put off, perhaps considering Cavin’s connections to the Prime Minister, and rambles on at length on all sorts of dry subjects that Felix very quickly decides aren’t worth paying attention to.

The food, at least, is excellent, and the company mostly good, so the first portion of the evening passes in relative comfort. About halfway through the main course, he catches a glimpse of a slim young man in a trim-fitting tailcoat and a shock of white hair slipping about the corners of the room with a camera. Not anyone Felix is familiar with, but he heard Alistair had to make some last-minute arrangements to secure a photographer for the event. He keeps an eye on the man and whenever the cold, black lens of the camera seems to turn his way, he’s careful to amend his face to a mildly pleasant expression. It won’t do for photos of him looking by turns irritable and inappropriately amused to surface in the Globe the next morning.

Toward the end of coffee and dessert, some unspoken signal brings Alistair to his feet. He taps his glass with a spoon until the gentle murmur of after-dinner conversations lulls and whoever’s in charge of sound is a veritable genius, because the minute he clears his throat to speak his voice is amplified gently throughout the entire room.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m very pleased to welcome you all to the tenth annual Christmas Gala and Charity Ball for AIDS Awareness. I’ll be speaking a little while later—please, hold your applause.” A ripple of laughter travels through the room. “But in the meantime I’d like to introduce our other guest speakers. Both are likely familiar to you, having helped to accomplish great strides in their respective fields and in their philanthropic efforts: Maevaris Tilani and Anders Thórirsson!”

There’s a cheerful wave of applause as the guests in question rise from their seats. Mae is sitting a few tables away, closer to the front, in a stunning cloud-silver gown studded with golden embroidery, and she smiles with studied, elegant benignity  to the crowd before reclaiming her seat. Anders is even taller standing upright across the table; he makes a small bow, boutonnière bobbing, and sits back down with only slightly less grace. 

Maxwell leans over to speak directly to him for the first time that evening, voice low in Felix’s ear as he says, “I’m hoping they’ll keep it brief. I think I’ve heard Tilani speak a dozen times, and this Anders fellow sounds like a bit of a bore.”

Felix grins through bared teeth and stares at his plate, still littered with scrapings of pomegranate preserve and smears of chocolate. He’s going to _kill_ his father before the night is through.

/

Carver listens to the speeches from just inside the staff door, munching on yet another helping of dessert. They’re the most adorable little tarts, perfect for two modest bites—or one large bite, if one is feeling adventurous—and he’s lost track of how many he’s had. Towards the end, Fenris pops in for another snack, camera tucked carefully under one arm to keep it away from the food, and he glares at Carver with his mouth full of pastry.

“You’ve got clotted cream on your chin, Hawke,” he says. “And crumbs on your shirt.” He, of course, is spotless.

Carver dabs at his face with a stray napkin and bends over to shake the crumbs away. “Better?”

“You’ll do, I suppose. They’re just about wrapped up, and I’m going to have to require you to make an appearance for at least a few dances.”

“Don’t you have pictures to take or something?”

“I have over a thousand already,” Fenris replies calmly. “I’ll be taking more on and off throughout the evening, but for the most part I intend to enjoy myself.”

“Fen, you know I don’t dance.”

“Hmm,” says Fenris mysteriously. “Did you get a look at the speakers?”

“Not really. Why?”

“One of them is our… mystery man.”

Carver’s mind scrabbles around for a bit, confused, before latching onto his meaning. “OH! Fuck, no way!” Somewhere behind him, one of the staff clears her throat irritably, and he lowers his voice as Alistair wraps up the evening’s talks. “You mean Tall Blond and Homeless?”

“For god’s sake, Hawke, he isn’t _homeless_. He’s… scruffy. And yes. His name is Anders Thórirsson.”

“Well I didn’t think it was _Alistair_. I’d have known if you were crushing on him.” He smirks and dodges the halfhearted blow Fen sends his way. “Aw, stop, you could have been a cute couple if Shani hadn’t gotten there first. And if Al wasn’t straight as a rod. Say, I recognize that name… Anders, you said? That’s the name of their sperm donor, Shani and Alistair’s.” Carver’s eyes pop comically. “What if they were the same person? What if Shan is carrying the spawn of your future husband?”

Fenris scowls even harder, a feat that never fails to impress Carver. Whenever he thinks Fen has hit the ultimate peak of irritability, his face takes it to the next level. “You yammer on even worse than Isabela sometimes, I swear. He is _not_ my future husband, he is merely an individual I have been known to find attractive on occasion. Now…”

Whatever he meant to say is drowned out by the roar of applause that breaks through the swinging doors. Fenris huffs inaudibly and grabs him by the elbow. “All right, enough chitchat. Time to mingle.”

Despite his protests, Carver is thrust into the main room by pure force. The lights have been brought down low, and they stain the fluted white walls and twin mezzanines in shades of bronze-red and muted gold as the guests rise from their seats and begin to mingle toward the dance floor. Up on the dais, Alistair is quietly shaking hands with the keynote speakers as the chamber orchestra strikes up a smooth, jazzy holiday favorite, and Carver lurks along the shadowed alcoves to get a better look at Blondie. Technically they’re _all_ blonds—Alistair a ruddy strawberry-blond and Maevaris Tilani sporting a flawless platinum French knot glittering with jeweled pins—but “Anders’” silky golden hair stands out. It’s neatly brushed and swept back from his face into a low bun at his nape, but a few strands have escaped during his passionate speech to float messily around his pointy face. He’s sort of handsome, Carver supposes, in a gangly, charming-vagabond sort of way. Not his type, precisely, but he can see where Fen’s attraction springs from.

A flash goes off near his face and he jerks back, glaring. “Was there call for that?”

“Absolutely.” Fenris has pulled the camera away from his face and is examining the preview screen with a positively evil smirk on his face. “This one is going in the Hawke family vault, for sure.”

“Let me see,” Carver whines, but Fen has already pulled well out of arm’s reach.

“Ah, ah, not so fast! I need a dance first. After the initial hubbub has died down.” He jerks his chin at the dance floor, where skirts and coattails spin in a flurry of shadow and light. Tilani seems to be leading the charge with an elegant box-step in the arms of her husband, a short, stocky man by comparison to her leggy grace, and a short ways away Alistair is swaying side-to-side with Shani, her pretty golden empire gown breaking smoothly over her pregnant belly.

Another snap of the camera. Carver turns and glares at him. “Don’t you have important people to photograph? Like your _boyfriend_?”

 _Flash_. Carver shudders to think what porous, greasy-skinned close-up Fenris just got. “You’re right, I _do_ have important people to photograph. Ta, darling. Try not to get too bored and wander off, or Bethy will never forgive me.”

Carver sulks for precisely as long as it takes to find the open bar. There he regales himself with a tumbler of bourbon, neat, and lurks at the edge of the bar until the pesky winos and lushes become too much to take. He knocks back the rest of his drink somewhere in the middle of the fifth song, a melodic string version of _Winter Wonderland_ that’s almost tolerable, and slinks away to find someone interesting to talk to—and to avoid Fen’s promise of a dance for as long as possible.

He’s rounding one of the massive square pillars near the front of the room when he nearly runs slap-bang into a very familiar face—Felix Alexius, sporting the healthy beginnings of a beard, an empty glass in one hand and his mouth half-open in surprise.

Carver beats him to the punch. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“My father is… uhm…” He appears to be searching for a word, but in the end he just grimaces and admits, “a bigwig.”

“Oh, you're _that_ Alexius,” Carver says, half-laughing, as if he doesn't already know. Felix appears to be slightly tipsy, but not entirely aware of it—the whole effect is improbably adorable.

“Sadly, yes. Not that I don't love my father, I do, but the whole…” He waves his wrist about in extravagantly piratical fashion as if to encompass the entire room. Carver makes a show of looking around and hums consideringly.

“Yes, I can see what you mean.”

“Why are _you_ here?” Felix demands. Then, before Carver can compose a suitable reply, “Cull said you were half-related to someone or other—Dorian!” He grabs Carver's arm in a vise-grip, making him jump. “He can't know. It's a secret. We don't know each other, I've never seen you before in my life. Understand?” In the same breath, he turns and snatches a little pink cocktail from a passing tray. Carver reaches out without thinking and takes it away.

“I think you need a break,” he says kindly. “How many have you had?”

Felix stares at him, aghast. “Only two or three. I'm not drunk! And you're not my mother,” he adds mutinously.

“You're halfway there, at least. Lightweight.” Carver sniffs the glass and winces. It's syrupy-sweet, with a healthy kick of tequila underneath. Good grief. Maybe not such a lightweight after all. “Why are you so eager to get plastered, anyway? It's not that bad a party—and coming from me, that's saying something.”

“It's a long story,” Felix says darkly. “But if he makes me go another round I may be sick on his shoes.”

That answers absolutely nothing, and only fills Carver's head with very explicit, distracting imagery. He coughs to hide his embarrassment and catches sight of Rutherford's blond, tamed head a short ways away. Escape. “Come on, then, I'll rescue you.” He puts a broad, gentle hand in the middle of Felix's back and propels him through the crowd to where Rutherford is chatting with a lean, dark fellow sporting the most ridiculous, well-kept mustache Carver has ever seen. He's also gazing at Cullen with eyes like a lovelorn puppy's, and Carver hesitates for half a second before pressing forward. If this is the mysterious ‘Dorian’ he’s heard so much about, then the man he’s envisioned in his head is so far removed from reality that he’s not really sure how to reconcile the two.

Cullen and the-man-who-is-probably-Dorian break off their conversation when Carver and Felix get close enough, faces painted with recognition. “Sorry to interrupt,” Carver says, smiling politely. “I think I found something that belongs to you.”

“Good grief,” says probably-Dorian, taking Felix by his spare elbow. “Fee, it's barely eight-thirty. I look away from you for _two_ _minutes…_ ”

“I'm _not_ drunk,” Felix insists at some volume, and Dorian pats his hand.

“I know you're not, darling, but if you don't take a break you very much will be.” He turns to Carver. “Thank you so much for returning him. A glass of water for my friend here, please.”

Cullen, who has been watching events unfold with slowly deepening dimples, breaks out into a laugh. “Dorian, love, he isn't part of the staff. This is Carver Hawke, Shani's cousin.”

Dorian blanches. “Oh god, I've really gone and put my foot in it, haven't I? I'm so sorry. I'm Dorian Pavus, a lifelong friend of Felix’s—though you probably already know that. I shudder to think what embarrassing stories he’s unearthed during this fit of alcohol abuse.”

“Good to meet you,” Carver says politely, mollified by Dorian's obvious discomfort. “And don’t worry—he hasn’t revealed anything incriminating. Yet. Sorry for interrupting, but I needed some backup.”

“Of course. Thank you for waylaying him. I lost track of him after the third round of dancing, which made it rather difficult to rescue him.”

“Dor, he’s bloody _awful_ ,” Felix whinges, hanging off Dorian’s arm like a limpet. “He had a million things to say about Mae’s speech and none of it complimentary or intelligent in the least. Does he have any idea we’re _friends_?”

“You’re friends with Maevaris Tilani?” Carver blurts. “Ah, it’s just that—I sort of promised my sister I’d get her autograph tonight, if I could.”

“Celebrity poacher,” Felix says tartly, and Dorian elbows him ungently.

“Hush, you. And I’m sure Mae would be delighted. D’you see her, Cullen? Flag her down, wouldn’t you?”

Ms. Tilani is located in short order, and Carver resists the urge to flatten his hair and straighten his suit cuffs like an antsy teenager. Until he sees who’s on her arm, and all thoughts of unsuitability fly right out of his head.

“Fen, darling, aren't you supposed to be taking pictures or something like that?”

Fenris smirks, entirely at home on the arm of the evening's most beautiful guest of honor. “I've found a new date for the evening, sweetheart, I'm afraid I'm a bit preoccupied.”

“My, that was quick,” Dorian says, kissing Ms. Tilani's hand with friendly familiarity. “Abandoned poor Thorold already, Mae?”

“He's off talking shop with that Cummerbund man, I'm sure he'll be fine.”

Fenris is staring at Carver oddly, and when he raises his eyebrows in question he says, “Hawke, are you seriously drinking that?”

Carver looks at the drink in his hand—he's forgotten about it entirely. “Oh, no. God, no. I'm holding it for someone until he's ready to make better life decisions.” He looks pointedly at Felix, who seems to be preoccupied with something or someone off behind Cullen's shoulder. Even so—

“Are you talking about me!” he exclaims without missing a beat. He whips his head around to glare at Carver, but the effect is somewhat ruined by his vaguely cross-eyed expression. Carver stifles a giggle. “My life decisions are excellent, I will have you know, even if my Dad doesn't think so—”

“Yes, okay, that's enough,” Dorian breaks in hastily. “Isn't Maxwell around here somewhere, Fee? Bit rude of you to make a perfect stranger take care of you all evening.”

“He's not a perfect stranger,” Felix says, and Carver fancies that he and Cullen and Fenris all hold their breaths in perfect tandem. “I've made a new friend tonight, Dorian, you should be proud of my socialization skills.”

And exhale.

“Your socialization skills are unparalleled, my dear,” Maevaris assures him. “Come now, Felix, surely your date for the evening isn't that bad?”

Felix stares at his shoes mournfully. “He's worse.”

“He’s not a very bright spark, apparently,” Cullen supplies, amused.

“Ah, the worst sin of all. You really do have the worst luck with dinner dates, don’t you darling? Speaking of which, this is Fenris, everyone—he’s been taking the most marvelous pictures all evening.” She turns her hundred-watt smile on Carver. “So sorry for stealing him away from you, he’s just so charming.”

“You should see him first thing in the morning,” Carver quips without thinking. Everyone laughs, and Fenris makes a face at him. Whoops. Now they all think he and Fenris are a couple. He makes an apologetic twitch of his shoulders and adds, “You can make it up to me, though. My sister all but threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t make it out of this evening without your autograph, Ms. Tilani.”

“Oh gracious, please call me Mae. And I’d be delighted—do you have anything for me to sign?”

“Er…”

“Hang on,” Cullen says, coming to his rescue. “I’ve got the programme still in my pocket.”

“And I have a pen.” Dorian procures it with a flourish, a fountain pen with a gold-lined nib, and Maevaris signs her name in an elegant, looping scrawl across the front of the little postcard-sized programme.

“Lovely. Teamwork!” She returns the paper to Carver, who tucks it into his suit pocket with a nod of thanks. “Now. I haven’t yet had my fill of dancing, and Fenris has promised me a turn around the room, so I shall see all of you later. Are we still on for Paragon’s?”

“At your leisure,” Dorian affirms with a nod. To Carver he adds, “You and Fenris are most welcome—a few of us are getting together at Paragon’s after, the pub just around the corner. You know it? Excellent. We’ve had it set aside for a small afterparty to wind down and have a few drinks. The Theirins will be there, I believe, and a few others—Anders and Ms. Adaar and the Trevelyans—don’t make that face, Felix, it’s most unbecoming. Say you’ll come?”

“Of course,” Carver says, pretending to ignore Fenris’ wide-eyed attempts at subtle signaling. Turning down the invite when _Anders_ was going to be there would just be cruel. “We’d be happy to.”

“Lovely. Now, Cullen, I know you hate this sort of thing but I really must insist on at least _one_ dance before you retreat to the sidelines.”

“At your service, love,” Cullen murmurs, a private, affectionate smile passing between them as they turn away arm-in-arm.

Carver suddenly realizes that he’s been left with Felix again, standing at the edge of the dance floor together while a jaunty classical piece carries the dancers around the room like a field of glittering butterflies.

“So, erm,” Felix says just when Carver is starting to feel awkward. “D’you want to dance?”

“I don’t dance, really,” Carver says before his brain catches up with his mouth. Dammit. Is he _really_ turning down an opportunity to spend a few minutes with a pretty, drink-clumsy, nice-smelling man in his arms?

“Oh,” says Felix.

He is. Apparently.

“Feeeeelix! Darling, there you are!”

Out of nowhere—or, more likely, out of the crowd—a tall, well-proportioned young man with a red face and an actual, honest-to-god pocket watch swinging from his waistcoat careens over to them, missing both his suit jacket and his good sense. Felix sobers up right before his eyes, and the newcomer promptly drapes himself all over him, nose going straight to the vulnerable bit of skin right below Felix’s earlobe. Carver clenches his fists and looks on as Felix pats the man on the back and mutters something about losing track of time.

“It’s alright, handsome, I forgive you. Now c’mon, you promised me at _least_ three more dances.” He peers over at Carver blearily. “Don’t think I know you. Maxwell Trevelyan, of the Oxfordshire Trevelyans.” He reaches around Felix’s back to shake his hand, and Carver considers ripping it off. But Felix ducks out from under his arm and stands askew to the dance floor, resignation on his face, so Carver restrains himself.

“It was good to see you, Carver,” Felix says with a quiet, vaguely pained smile, and then he’s gone, pulled into the chaos by his drunken dinner date.

Carver scowls after them and melts back into the woodwork. Not well enough, though—a few moments later Fenris reappears, apparently having accomplished his “turn about the room” with Maevaris and wearing a disbelieving scowl. Just one of the many flavors of _ugh_ he wears on his face on a daily basis.

“Well aren’t you a right tit.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Carver says stiffly, but he allows Fenris to take his arm and tow him onto the dance floor.

Fenris stares at him as if he’s grown two heads. “Next time a handsome young man asks you to dance, you say _yes_ , you stupid sod. Now pay attention, if you step on my foot it’ll be on national television, and Bethy will never let you live it down.”

/

Felix closes his eyes halfway as he sways in Maxwell’s arms, but it’s difficult to escape the thick whiskey smell being breathed against his face, or the scent of old cologne muddied with sweat and the tang of drycleaning fluid. He sighs and lets Max spin him in a clumsy circle. Their arms get tangled halfway through, and he breaks away for a brief respite before allowing himself to be drawn back in. Over Maxwell’s shoulder, he can see Dorian with his nose in Cullen’s collar, likely whispering something cheeky into his ear by the flush on Cullen’s face; beyond them, Carver Hawke is getting drawn into a dance by his pretty elfin boyfriend, the gleam of silver-white tattoos peeking from under the edge of his winged collar. Felix sighs again. _I don’t dance,_ indeed. Only with the right person, apparently.

Ah, well. Missed opportunities. The best he can hope for now is a swift end to this painful parody of a dance and then friendly drinks with his close friends after—and avoiding Carver Hawke at all costs. Thanks very much for nothing, Dorian. What had possessed him to invite Carver and Fenris is beyond him.

“I beg your pardon, might I cut in?”

He twists his neck around and relief blooms sharp and sweet in the back of his throat. His lady-knight in shining armor has arrived.

Qarina Adaar is, as usual, absolutely stunning and slightly scandalous in a black lace sheath dress, cut into geometric patterns that cover her ebony body like a second skin—in fact, it's a bit hard to tell where the dress ends and her skin begins. She's shaved the sides of her head since he last saw her, showing off the multiple golden rings marching up both ears, and the thick dreadlocks on top are coiled in an elegant knot stuck through with pins topped by heavy golden miniatures of various South Indian deities. She towers over him even more than usual in her strappy golden heels, but he bows over her hand anyway, disproportionately grateful to see her.

“Darling, you are stunning,” he says gravely. “I can hardly stand to look at you.”

“Sweet-talker.” She smacks his cheek with wine-red lips, but he knows better than to check for traces of lipstick. Only the best nonstick lip stains for the UK’s number-one model.

Standing awkwardly beside them, suddenly bereft of his partner, Maxwell makes a jerky little bow and weaves off to find his sister, or perhaps another drink. Felix couldn’t honestly care less. “Dance with me,” she says—or commands, rather—and he is happy to obey.

“I’m feeling rather slighted, you know,” she says after a few minutes of peaceful, booze-free dancing. “I was hoping for an email from Doctor Alexius humbly requesting my presence at your side for tonight.”

“He somehow got it into his head that I deserved a ‘change of pace,’” Felix replies glumly. “I had high hopes, but somehow this is worse than the time I brought Christiana Vael to the Minister’s luncheon.”

Qarina tsks sympathetically. “Such a shame. You need to start picking out your own dinner dates, love.”

“And recreate the fiasco of last year? I don’t think so.”

The current tune is winding down, and Qarina has somehow masterfully directed them to the edge of the dance floor where a discreet sign directs guests to the restrooms. She loops his arm through hers. “Walk with me. I think we could both use a breather. And tell me more about this Maxwell—he’s a Trevelyan, isn’t he? His sister is perfectly adorable.”

“Yes, the Trevelyans. New money—his father’s a businessman, grandfather founded Trevelyan Glassworks and they make a killing in stocks every year. His sister is nice enough, I suppose. Sweet of her to hang on Seamus’ arm all night, when everyone knows that’s going nowhere.”

Qarina blows out a very unladylike laugh into the deserted hallway. “Don’t feel bad for her—she’s having the time of her life trying to maneuver him into Ashaad’s good graces, best of luck to her. He’s still sour over my refusal to be his plus one.”

“He did look rather grouchy, I thought. He was sitting at my table.” Felix shakes his head, baffled at the thought of tiny, frazzled Seamus Dumar attempting to woo Qarina’s towering cousin. “He’s not so bad, really—Maxwell, I mean.” His brain is still buzzing from the effects of all the alcohol he consumed in a panic immediately after dinner, tripping from subject to subject, alighting like an erstwhile butterfly that can’t quite make up its mind where to land. “He’s just… clingy. And drunk. God, I’m such a hypocrite.” He sighs gustily and leans more firmly against Qarina’s sturdy weight. “I’m not usually this tipsy at social functions. Especially ones I actually give a toss about.”

“You’re under a lot of strain,” Qarina says softly, taking smaller steps as they turn down another corridor. They’re somewhere in the bowels of the venue now, having left the loos far behind, and they can still hear the strains of Christmas music drifting behind them but it’s softer, less grating. “Don’t beat yourself up. Also,” she adds, more firmly, “you need to learn to say _no_ to your father.”

“But he—”

“Is a grown man,” she interrupts tartly. “He can withstand the disappointment of you turning down yet another desperate attempt to set you up with a well-to-do family. There’s no hurry to settle down, Felix. Especially if you’re not ready for it.”

Felix watches his feet as they amble along, thinking of a well-cut suit and a pair of smiling blue eyes. “I think I could be ready. If it were the right person.”

“Ah, the myth of Mr. Right. Or Miss Right.” Qarina chuckles warmly. “If anyone’s capable of tracking down such a creature, it’s you. Speaking of, who was the hunk you were chatting with earlier? Mr. Tall Dark and Gorgeous, with those stunning blue eyes?”

His heart trips in his chest. “He’s gay,” he says automatically. “Apparently. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Apparently? Not definitely?” She nudges him teasingly. “And I wasn’t asking for _me_ , silly. Oh, hello there.”

“Mrs. Theirin,” Felix says, surprised. The woman herself is sitting on a bench in a quiet alcove, wafting her programme in a gentle breeze over her flushed face. She smiles and waves them over, so Qarina drops Felix gently onto the bench beside her. He shakes her hand somewhat sweatily.

“Just Shani, please,” she says brightly, not at all put off by his generally limp appearance. “And you're Felix, aren't you? You were seated at our table earlier, but I don’t think we’ve officially met.”

“That's right. And this is my friend, Qarina Adaar. Sorry to intrude on your quiet moment.”

“Oh, it's no trouble. I was just resting my feet. Bloody terrible, being pregnant, I don't recommend it. I even wore my most comfortable shoes, all for nothing.” She hikes her skirts up a bit and wiggles her toes to demonstrate. Beneath the gorgeous golden silk dress, she's wearing bright purple crocs and stripey ankle socks. The sight is so incongruous that Felix chokes on a laugh.

“Truly, you are the height of fashion,” he says while Qarina makes envious noises.

“Comfort over couture,” Shani declares, “my designer despairs of me.” She sounds entirely unrepentant about this fact. “How goes the party?”

“I think they’re upping the ante.” Qarina cocks her head, gold bangles swinging. Through the maze of walls and hallways, they can hear the faint throb of bass beneath the gliding strings. In a low, musical sing-song voice she quips, “And now comes the part of the evening where the old folks shuffle on home and the rest of us are expected to break our legs being ‘young and hip.’”

“I’ll pass, thank you,” Shani grimaces. “I’m just waiting for the part of the evening where I can sit on a couch and make Alistair rub my feet while the bartender brings me cranberry juice on the rocks.”

“You’re coming to Paragon’s, then?” Qarina asks. “I’m quite looking forward to it after all this frou-frou nonsense.”

Felix closes his eyes for just a moment as the women chat companionably. The bench is solid marble and cold under his arse, but it’s a break from being tugged hither and yon by a drunken dinner date, and he welcomes the chance to wall himself off from the swirling lights and jangling music. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had those last two cocktails. He thinks of Carver plucking the last one from his grip with effortless kindness, and melts a little. Dammit. He’s barely seen the man in the flesh more than a handful of times and already he’s in over his head.

“…what was his name, Felix? You never said.”

He jerks back to the present. “Sorry, Qar, what were you saying?”

She blinks at him patiently, sloe-black eyes made darker and more dramatic with the precise application of kohl. “The handsome young man you were chatting with earlier. With the eyes. I was wondering if he was invited to our little get-together at Paragon’s.”

“Carver?” he hedges, confused. “Yes, Dorian invited him. And he’s better come, too—he owes me a drink. He wouldn’t let me finish my cocktail earlier.” Probably for the best, but he’s still a little bitter about that last, awkward, far-too-sober dance with Maxwell. He really wanted that drink.

“Oh, you met Carver?” Shani asks. “I hope he didn't offend you, he's usually pretty surly at these types of things. When anyone can get him to go, which is rarely.” She sighs and fans herself more vigorously. “Bless his stoic, introverted soul.”

“I found him quite charming, actually,” Felix says, thinking regretfully of his rejected offer of a dance. “For the most part.”

“For the most part! Well, I apologize on his behalf then, for the other twenty percent or so,” Shani laughs. “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm in taking your drink. He can be a little… overprotective. But it often translates into _overbearing_.”

“You know him well, then?” Qarina inquires politely.

“He’s my cousin, on his mother’s side. Leandra Amel. Married a nobody and eloped to Canada, of all places, then came back with an angry teenager and two young children. And no husband.” She sighs, hands meeting to fold quietly in her lap. “Carver’s a good boy, though, truly. His family has had some of the worst luck I’ve ever seen, and he never complains.” She laughs lightly, a little self-conscious. “Forgive me, I’m getting maudlin. I’m happy you’ve met, though, it will give him someone else to chat with at Paragon’s besides Alistair and myself.”

“And his boyfriend,” Felix puts in, garnering a swift, startled look from Qarina.

“His what?” Shani demands. “Oh my god, do _not_ tell me he’s been keeping secrets! Leandra would have told me by now, I’m sure.”

Felix shrugs awkwardly, suddenly realizing he’s the center focus of their attention. It’s a bit overwhelming. “They seemed very friendly, earlier, that’s all. The, er… photographer fellow. A bit short, white hair, tattoos…”

“Oh.” Shani deflates again just as quickly as she’d puffed up with excitement. “That’s just Fenris. Sorry, not _just_ —I didn’t mean it like that. Only, he and Carver aren’t together. I’m fairly sure. As much as his mother would wish otherwise.”

Felix hums speculatively, unsure of how to answer without sounding head over heels in puppy love, but he’s saved from an awkward moment by the arrival of Mr. Theirin. He appears around the corner looking like a bedraggled golden retriever, tie askew and his hair sticking up, and let out a boisterous sigh of relief at the sight of his wife.

“There you are,” she says warmly, holding out her hand imperiously for him to take. He bends in half to kiss it. “I was wondering when you’d get tired of the socializing.”

“I was tired of it before dinner was halfway through,” Alistair sighs. “But that’s all right. The worst is over. We’re about ready to hit Paragon’s, I think—a few of us are calling cabs.” He turns to Felix with a slighter brighter smile. “I heard through the grapevine you’ve been invited. Good to see you again—we met briefly at Dorian’s soiree last summer, I think.”

“That’s right.” Felix stands, straightening his suit and shaking Alistair’s hand at the same time. “Good to see you again.”

“Do ride with us?” Shani offers. Her husband pulls her to her feet in one smooth movement, and in spite of her pregnancy she’s still incredibly delicate against Alistair’s good-natured bulk. “The least I can do for your company is save you from a ride in the Trevelyan town car.”

Felix blanches slightly. “Good lord, have I been that obvious?”

Qarina pats his hand. “You were zoning out a bit, darling. We were commiserating about bad dates and I offered a few anecdotes about darling Maxwell.” She grins. “Don’t worry, I think you managed to smile for the cameras enough that no one will be the wiser.”

/

Fenris finishes with his photos a little before midnight, and although the party is still going strong, Carver is happy to slip with him out into the cool December air. It’s a mild night for the time of year, well above freezing and lit brilliantly with streetlamps that reflect off the rainy pavement with little white-gold halos. It’s misting faintly rather than drizzling, so they decide to walk the handful of blocks to Paragon’s, turning up their collars against the damp, Fenris’ coat flaring bulkily around his equipment bag where it’s slung across his chest. By unspoken accord, they walk in silence. The night is crisp and clarifying, and it seems to wash away all the muddled thoughts and sounds and sights of the evening, leaving behind only a peaceful stillness that Carver has almost forgotten how to feel.

Paragon’s is wedged between an antiques shoppe and an arching cement bridge, with a rustic brick front and tiny windows that glow warmly from within. The door is beaten oak, pitted and smoothed from years—perhaps centuries—of use, and it swings open with a little effort to admit them into the warmth of the pub.

Carver has never been, but he decides that he likes it right away. It’s smallish, long rather than wide, with exposed beams overhead and brick walls, and a squat, polished bar from which hang racks of shiny glassware that catch and reflect the dim light cheerfully. Underfoot are threadbare rugs, and beyond the square tables with their collection of mismatched chairs is an open, comfortable space full of plush armchairs and antique side-tables arranged around a roaring fire. Here is where the bulk of the guests have gathered, some still dressed to the nines and others down to their shirtsleeves, most of them cradling a drink.

Dorian spots them almost immediately. He detaches himself from his conversation with Anders Thórirsson and glides over, smiling wider than his moustache. “You made it! I was ever so worried you wouldn’t be able to come.”

“We walked,” Fenris explains easily, passing his coat and equipment bag to Carver as if he’s some sort of busboy. Then Carver spies Thórirsson over by the fire, nursing a glass of something and watching their arrival, and smirks as he busies himself with tucking their coats onto pegs and securing Fenris’ bag beneath them.

“A nice night for it,” Dorian agrees. “Please, come in. Drinks are on the Knight Club tonight, so don’t be stingy. Then I can introduce you to anyone you don’t already know.”

It’s hard to remember that Carver had never known Dorian before tonight. He’s so gracious, effortlessly personable and easy to talk to. He draws Fenris out of his post-photoshoot shell with a few easy quips about the shellfish entrée, and Carver is content to listen to them wax rhapsodic about scallops while he watches the bartender at work. He’s ordered a pint of something local, but Fenris, characteristically, has asked for a complicated cocktail, and the man is truly an artist—muddling ingredients in the glass with a practiced wrist, adding portions of this and that without stopping to measure, and capping off the finished product with a delicate sprig of thyme that falls through the chilled liquor like dark lace.

“Thank you, Corff,” Dorian says to him cheerfully, and then they’re being drawn into the tight-knit circle of warmth and firelight.

Unsurprisingly, Fenris immediately strikes up a conversation with Anders about one of the points in his speech, and it sounds a little too in-depth for Carver to follow at the moment, so he lets himself drift into Shani’s corner of the pub. She’s holding court alongside her husband, who is looking far more like himself in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, and she beckons him over with a wave of her hand, regal as a queen.

“Carver! Twice in one night, this is truly one for the history books. How did you like the Gala?”

“Tolerable,” he answers honestly, bending to kiss her cheek before stationing himself on the arm of the couch she’s draped over. “I was sorry I didn’t get to see more of you—you looked lovely this evening.”

“Note the past tense,” she laughs. “You’re quite the looker yourself tonight, sirrah. I see you already met Anders and Dorian, let me introduce you to the rest. This is my very dear acquaintance whom I have only just met, Qarina Adaar.”

The woman she indicates is as tall as Carver—and that’s saying something—with skin like watered silk and a gown that his mother would click her tongue at. “Charmed,” she says, and she sounds like she means it as Carver takes her hand and bows briefly over the back of it.

“And Cass you know, obviously, but have you met her wife, Josephine?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure, no.” He had noticed Cassandra at the party before, but hadn’t had a chance to speak with her. She spares him a small smile and a nod, a little flushed with wine and the warmth of the room. At her side, a vision in royal blue silk, is Josephine Montilyet, petite and smiling with a dark, coiled braid spilling over one shoulder—likely the remains of a complicated updo, if the collection of gold-tipped pins in the breast pocket of Cassandra’s suit is any indication.

“Good to meet you at last, Carver,” she says warmly. “Cass speaks very highly of you.”

“That doesn’t bode well,” he deadpans, garnering a round of laughter from their corner of the room.

“Only good things, Hawke,” Cassandra tells him. “Unless you annoyed me beyond all reason that day. Then I make no promises.”

Carver grins. “That sounds more like it.”

There are others in attendance, strewn throughout the small pub, and he searches the crowd for familiar faces. There are more than a few, although some he’d rather avoid than speak to, so he sits contentedly near his cousin and sips his beer, letting the relaxed, comfortable conversation flow around him like an eddying pool, sometimes slowing to pick him up in its current before flowing on again without him. Fenris has disappeared somewhere, but he’s not concerned—the late hour and the alcohol have combined to put him in a near-comatose state of contentment, marked with bright flares of interest whenever Felix Alexius comes into view.

He doesn’t mean to be creepy—he hopes he isn’t being creepy. His eyes are just naturally drawn to him as he drifts about the room, chatting with everyone and always floating two steps ahead of the pretty blond Trevelyan boy. It’s a bit of an amusing dance to watch. Carver genuinely can’t tell if Felix is avoiding him or just accidentally keeping him at arm’s length, which speaks to his levels of social grace that the line between the two is blurred so easily.

At some point, Felix is drawn into a game of darts with Cullen, which gives Carver an excellent excuse to watch him. In a very non-creepy way. He’s down to his waistcoat, now, a silky champagne-colored piece which nips in very nicely and cuts off just above his hips; the turn and sway of his body as he aims and fires—with impressive accuracy, although Cullen is keeping just slightly ahead in terms of scoring—makes it very difficult for Carver to tear his eyes away.

Time, however, marches on, and his beer is drained and replaced and drained again, and he's just starting to wonder where Fenris has got to when the man himself appears, lips red and collar slightly askew. Carver opens his mouth to make some smart remark, but Fen just grips him by the wrist and tugs him through the crowd and outside, wild-eyed and out of breath. As soon as they're alone he fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette and lights it with shaking hands while Carver looks on, bemused.

“Don't say a word,” he mutters around the filter. “I know you don't approve, but God help me I've never needed a smoke so badly in my life.”

“Any particular reason?” When Fenris doesn't answer right away he presses, “Could it have something to do with that purple mark on your neck?”

Fenris slaps a hand to his neck where there absolutely is _not_ a hickey. Not that he knows that. Yet. Fenris wilts. “I've just done something incredibly stupid, Hawke.”

Carver puts his hands in his pockets and waits. Fenris paces. The street is damp with snowmelt, the air cold but not too far below freezing, and Carver runs warm enough that he isn't missing his coat. Fenris, though, slim as he is, must be freezing. The tips of his overlarge ears and the end of his hawk-like nose have gone well past pink and into ruddy crimson by the time he finally plucks the smoking stub of cigarette out of his mouth and says, “I kissed Anders Thórirsson.”

Carver hums. “Is that all?”

“Is that _all_ , he says,” Fenris snarls. “You know I haven't been with anyone since my surgery. I'm so out of practice it's embarrassing.”

“Did he really give you a verdict of your performance?”

“No! I don't mean him—he was fantastic, _god_ , Carv, his hands are _enormous_ —I meant _me_. I… I don't know what to do, _how_ to do this.”

Carver resists the urge to take hold of his arms and give him either a hug or a good shake. “Fen. Did you like it?”

Fenris stops short and the question and looks at him as if he's gone mad. “Yes, obviously.”

“And did he like it?”

“I… think so, yes. He was very enthusiastic up until the point I punched him in the jaw and ran.”

Carver clenches his hands into fists. “Did he do something you didn't like?”

“I… no. It was unexpected, that’s all. He groped my arse,” Fenris admits. “It was lovely, just. I wasn’t ready.”

“And you panicked,” Carver supplies.

“Yes.” Fenris kicks his shoe against the wet pavement, making a wretched scuffing sound. “So now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself, can we go?”

“If you really want to.” Carver takes a step toward the door, but Fenris doesn’t follow him. “Do you?”

“I… don’t know.” Fenris stares at the filter still smoking faintly between his fingers. Before it can reach skin, he turns and grinds it out against the wet brick wall of the pub.

The door swing open. “…one more time, I’m going to punch him straight in his smarmy mouth! Oh, hello.” Felix stills abruptly in the doorway and staggers a bit when Dorian walks straight into him from behind.

“What in god’s name are you—oh. Terribly sorry, we didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” Carver begins, at the same time that Fenris says, “You weren’t interrupting.” Fenris flicks the cold butt aside. “I’ll just grab our coats, shall I?”

Carver nods dumbly, and Fen slips back inside in a waft of nicotine and faded cologne. Dorian clears his throat. “Leaving already?”

“Fen has a… thing tomorrow,” Carver improvises lamely. “It was a very enjoyable evening, though, thank you for inviting us.”

“Of course, of course. Felix, it’s bloody freezing out here, I’m begging off. Come find me when you’re feeling less like clocking someone in the head, won’t you?”

In a trice he’s ducked back inside, leaving Felix and Carver standing alone on the wet pavement in the middle of a late year’s-end night. It’s such an absurd parallel of earlier than evening, when they’d been abandoned on the dance floor with nothing between them but awkward silence, that Carver feels the immediate need to rectify it.

“You just can’t get rid of him, can you?”

Felix looks puzzled. “Dorian? Oh, god, you mean Maxwell. It’s true, I can’t.”

Carver coughs away a snigger. “ _Maxwell_?”

“Isn’t it awful? I’d feel bad for him, but my name is hardly any better.”

“Of course it is,” Carver says encouragingly. A part of him is floating above this conversation, aghast at his choice in conversation topics, but he presses on regardless. “I like your name. _My_ name, on the other hand, is too punny for words. The only possible way it could be punnier is if my parents had named me Jesus.”

Felix snorts, then abruptly looks horrified at himself, and it’s such an incongruous reaction that Carver finds himself laughing at his own joke.

“It’s true! Carver, the gay Jewish carpenter. The jokes practically write themselves.”

“Was Jesus gay?” Felix wonders, mystified.

Carver chokes. “I’m really not the person to ask. I’m sure Cassandra would know—she probably has a whole presentation prepared and memorized in case the occasion ever comes up.”

“Oh my god, she probably does.” Felix rubs his eyes, strung somewhere between exhausted and tipsy. “I’m still baffled by her. Have you known her long?”

“A… few years,” Carver says, trying and failing not to sound evasive. “My sister goes to the uni where she chaplains, and then of course there’s fencing. I haven’t met her wife before tonight, though. For a long time I accused her of making her up.”

Felix laughs, bright and unselfconscious. “I’m sure she took that well.”

“She challenged me to a duel,” Carver admits. “And trounced me, obviously.”

“That sounds just like her.” He shakes his head, still smiling. “I’m quite surprised I haven’t met you before, you know, considering how many friends we have in common. And I’m studying at U of C myself, so it’s likely I’ve walked right past your sister on more than one occasion and didn’t even know it.”

“Really? What are you studying?”

“Erm… maths.” He almost looks embarrassed, but Carver makes an encouraging noise and so he elaborates, “I’m working on a graduate degree in cryptography and analytical algebra, but I’m thinking of shifting to a concentration in archeology. I already have a history degree, you see, so the foundation has already been laid.”

Carver blinks, taken aback. “You went from studying history to maths?”

“Ah, yeah. I’m not really sure what I want to _do_ yet—you know, for a career. So I dabbled in a bit of everything in my undergrad, graduated with a liberal arts degree, and now I’m working my way through anything and everything that interests me. My Dad despairs of me,” he laughs, but it’s a little strained. “He was hoping I’d go into the medical field like him, but it just hasn’t stuck.”

“Well I’m impressed, if that makes any difference,” Carver says earnestly—perhaps a little more earnestly than he might have been without two fingers of whiskey and a couple beers inside him. “I barely managed to scrape out a bachelor’s at all.”

It’s Felix’s turned to be surprised, and Carver bites his tongue, wishing he could take back the words. At least his flush will go unnoticed, since his cheeks and ears are already toasty pink in the winter chill. “Truly?”

“Yeah. Not much for schoolwork. I liked learning things, but I’ve never been good with deadlines and tests. Much rather be working with my hands.” He looks down at them, at his blunt, square nails and the palms littered with scars from years of hard labor. The old sour pill of embarrassment that he’d struggled so much in school suddenly becomes far less important.

“You’re lucky,” Felix says quietly, startling him out of his self-contemplation. “You know your place in the world. Not many can say the same.”

“Like you?” Carver offers.

Felix only shrugs. The silence that descends is a little less awkward than the one on the dance floor, but still not perfect. Carver counts his breaths in the white puffs forming in front of his face—it only takes six before Felix is shifting his feet and glancing back at the door. “Your friend… boyfriend? Is probably coming back soon, so…”

“Oh, Fenris isn’t my boyfriend,” Carver says, a little too quickly. “I mean, I love him dearly, but he’s more the brother I never had than anything. I couldn’t imagine trying to date. We’d be a disaster.” Shut _up_ , Hawke. The voice belongs to Fenris, ironically enough, and Carver wonders what’s taking so long with their coats. “Listen, I wasn’t expecting to run into you here, but I’m glad I did. You’re decent company off the clock, Alexius.”

Felix laughs and reaches out to shake his hand, a little less tense than he had seemed a moment ago. “Same to you. I’ll be very put out if you finish the commission and disappear into the ether, never to be heard from again.”

Their grip lingers, a point of warmth in the midst of the frigid December damp, and for a moment Carver thinks he just might have enough beer in him to do something incredibly stupid.

Before he can make up his mind, the door blows open and the Trevelyans stumble out in a cloud of laughter and expensive perfume. The moment is broken. Felix steps back quickly, mouth pinched, and Maxwell descends upon him with a smacking cheek kiss and an overly friendly arm around his neck.

“There you are! We’re off home, Evy and I, but I had a lovely evening and we really must get together again soon. Promise?” Without giving Felix a chance to actually respond, Maxwell actually pats his cheek like a child and prances off to the town car idling a little ways down the street, his sister giggling and singing something ribald under her breath as she trails along beside him. Felix makes a sour face and wipes his cheek.

“Ugh. I think my beard just got burned away from all the alcohol on his breath.”

“He really doesn’t seem like good company,” Carver remarks, keeping a polite distance apart. “I’m sorry you had to put up with him all evening.”

Absurdly, Felix turns cheerful. “Oh, I’ve had worse. Much worse. Max was annoying, but he’s harmless.” He half-turns toward the door. “I’m a bit chilly, I think I’ll step back inside—did you want me to check on your friend for you?”

“I’ll come, too,” Carver demurs. “Maybe he finally got up the courage to actually talk to that Anders fellow and I’ll have to peel them apart just to take him home.”

As luck would have it, good or bad, Fenris is standing just inside the door, alone, fastening his coat from the bottom up with patient fingers. He nods to Felix, polite but unforthcoming, and Felix seems to take the hint. He waves a final goodbye to Carver and is embraced by the small gathering, disappearing into their glittering folds like a stone sinking beneath the waves. Carver grabs his own coat and tugs it on roughly, irritated at his own mawkishness.

“All right?” he asks.

Fenris slips his camera bag over his shoulder. “All right. You?”

Carver holds the door open for Fenris to step through. Past the bar, now ensconced on the couch between Dorian and Qarina Adaar, Felix is slouched with a glass of water and a faded, tired smile. Somehow he’s still the brightest thing in the room. “I think so,” he says, and follows Fenris out into the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from "Lampshades on Fire" by modest mouse. My inspiration for the interior of [Paragon's Pub](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/c7/d3/97/c7d397ca117a674ae9e0891b9e4268f0.jpg) came from here.
> 
> ...did i mention this fic was slow burn? because it is. very very slow burn. 
> 
> also, in case anyone is wondering: yes, Fenris is trans and no, that's not the reason he and Carver aren't an item. They just don't like each other like that.


	5. 5.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver and Felix and their respective late-December non-Christmas activities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a LOT of fun researching and writing this chapter! A few important disclaimers: I am not Jewish myself, and I owe a lot of thanks to kinkyfenris and earlgreyer1 on tumblr for their patience with my endless nitpicky questions. Although I think Carver covers this topic, I'd like to add my own note and say that the "Hawke family holiday" is not meant to be a perfect traditional Hanukkah, and any deviations from the proper celebrations are a purposeful nod to ex-Catholic Malcolm's influence over their holiday shenanigans. However, any details that are particularly grating are entirely my fault, just let me know and I will do my best to fix them. 
> 
> I also have been doing a lot of reading of first-hand accounts of living with HIV, which will be steadily informing how I write Felix; but in light of [this](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/134119417370/on-illness-in-modern-da-aus) post on tumblr, if anything is particularly offensive or harmful, I would appreciate being told. It's not anyone's job but my own to get this right, and no one is obligated to read this fic if the subject matter is upsetting or off-putting, nor is it anyone's obligation to point out my mistakes. Still, I just want people to be aware that I'm doing my best to treat the subjects in this story with respect, and I'm 100% open to correction and advice. 
> 
> tldr; if i'm fucking up, tell me and I will fix it! 
> 
> chapter warnings at the bottom to avoid spoilers

_Dear, please pick up an extra bottle of red on your way back from the shop? Love ya!!. Mum_

Carver purses his lips at the text, hesitating just outside _Blackwall and Stroud's_. The door clangs open a moment later and Fenris walks straight into him with a poorly-muffled curse. “Oomph! The fuck, Hawke?”

“Sorry.” He moves out of the way and has to do a quick little sidestep to avoid being sucked into the bustling foot traffic swarming the pavement. “Jesus, it’s swamped. What is it, the day before Christmas?”

“How did you know?” Fenris says dryly, hooking his arm through Carver's to avoid the same fate.

“I’m a fortune teller. And my fortune-telling senses are saying that we need to stop on the way home and get more wine.”

“You know the way to my heart is through my liver. Lead on, then; if I get trampled by the crowd tell Bethy my last thoughts were of her homemade cranberry relish.”

Carver snorts. “I’m wounded. What about _my_ homemade cranberry relish?”

“It doesn't exist, for which I'm certain all our digestive systems are eternally grateful.” Fen glances up at him from under his bleach-white bangs, brows crinkling. “What's going on with you? You're in a… peculiar mood.”

“I dunno. Just… a lot of things on my mind.”

“Hmm. Is this because a certain devilishly charming young lady is coming to dinner today?”

Carver scowls and walks a little faster. “I have nothing against Isabela.”

“Except her influence over your sister, apparently.”

“Mare can feel free to do what she likes. She’s an adult.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t get to feel protective of her.” Fenris jostles him as they turn a corner down a pedestrians-only street. Carver grunts and shoves back gently. “Stop it, you monster. If I slip and fall you’re not getting your present.”

“You got me a present?” Carver asks, letting himself be diverted from his grumpy mood. “I thought you didn’t buy into the whole,” he lowers his voice and drawls, “ _capitalist frenzy of idiots trying to make up for a year of neglect with overpriced nonsense._ ”

Fenris snorts. “Doesn’t mean I can come to a Hawke Family Holiday emptyhanded.” He holds open the door to Cabot Spirits and Wines, and Carver steps inside to the tinkling of the seasonally-appropriate sleigh bells hanging off the door. “Speaking of which, what did you get _me_?”

“It’s a surprise, genius, that’s how these things work.”

Carver drifts along the aisles, perusing the vintages on offer. He’s not much of a wine drinker, though, so he leaves Fenris to it and finds himself in front of the harder spirits. A bottle of rum for Isabela, because he’s waited ’til the last minute just in case her relationship with his sister goes tits up _again_ , and then his eye is caught by a warm golden bottle of West Hill brandy just begging to be purchased. He loops his fingers around the short, slender neck to read the back. It’s a holiday blend, limited edition, and the label pronounces: _notes of black currant with a spicy cinnamon finish. Also, tastes like brandy_.

He’s always had a soft spot for self-aware consumerism. He plunks both bottles on the counter and turns, scanning the racks for Fenris. “Fen! You done yet?”

There’s an irritable hum from the other side of the shop, and then Fenris emerges with a bottle tucked under his arm and an eyebrow delving high along his forehead. “You don’t rush perfection, Hawke. But since you’re so impatient, here you are—and it’s on me, since I couldn’t decide what to get Leandra.”

“You know she only cares that all her children are under one roof.”

“Hmm. I’m still not certain whether to be horrified or honored that she considers me one of her offspring.” He stands to one side while Carver pays, directing the shop assistant to gift wrap the rum, and then slides his choice onto the counter. It’s a sizeable bottle of shiraz, labeled _Finale_ in a simple, minimalist font. A signature scrawled beneath proclaims it’s by _Massaad_ , whoever that is _._ Carver spies the price and turns around, pretending not to see.

“I’ll trust your judgement,” he says, hoisting the paper bag under one arm and fishing in his pocket with the other. “I’m parked around the corner if you want a lift, or are you stopping off home first?”

“I’m ready to go.” Fenris glances down at himself. “Am I suitably attired?”

Carver pretends to scrutinize him. Truly, Fen is a far better judge of fashion that he is, leaning towards somber colors in slim, tasteful cuts of rich fabric, and today is no different: under his black wool coat he’s wearing a dark grey jumper with a fine cable knit, black slacks, and a moss green scarf that Carver suspects was purchased in part thanks to Merrill’s sartorial advice. “You’re fine,” he decides aloud, hoping his mother won’t critique his own jeans and cozy flannel shirt, his usual ’shop attire. “Onward ho, then.”

The drive is, predictably, tediously long and full of the Christmas Eve rush of people trying to get wherever they’re going. Fenris tucks his chin into his scarf and dozes off while Carver pokes at the radio at every red light, trying to find something not completely terrible to listen to—which, on Christmas Eve, is difficult to find. He has nothing against Christmas, generally, but the horrifying decline of music during this time always appalls him. After hitting the fifth rendition of _Marshmallow World_ , he gives up and turns it off to brave the rest of the drive in silence.

Somewhere between Camden and Highbury Hill, the heavy grey clouds that glower overhead finally release their burden: a faint, swiftly-melting drizzle of snow. The flakes thicken the closer they get to home, and by the time he pulls into his mum’s driveway, they’re fat and wet and sticking to the edges of lawns and the tops of the streetlights. Marian’s Jag is already parked in the drive, and he pulls up next to it before killing the engine and sitting for a little bit in contented silence.

Beside him, Fenris stirs. “Change your mind?”

“Of course not.”

He twists around to grab his purchases from the back seat and together they spill out into the frosty air, shoulders hunched against the snow. It’s terribly unusual for London, and it reminds him painfully of his childhood, just like this time of year always does. Raging snowstorms that piled around their little trailer in the wilds of Alberta, building forts and throwing snowballs until they were all soaked through their winter gear and breathless with laughter. Da insisting on hauling them all out to the deep woods to pick out a tree to drag home, propped up in a snowdrift in lieu of bringing it inside and draped with all manner of homemade garlands: berries and popcorn and discount ribbons tied into bows, the curled black shells of chestnuts he and Mare had harvested and hoarded the previous autumn, Bethy’s little collection of laces from shoes she’d lost half a pair of. Their holiday dinners were always cobbled together from the Christmas boxes handed out by the church down the road and whatever kosher delicacies their mum could scrape up on their limited income, but it was always the best food he’d ever eaten.

Fenris touches his arm gently. “Hawke.”

“Yeah. Got it. Going.” He shakes off the melancholy and surges toward the front door.

It opens just before he can get his fingers around the handle, and Bethy is there, wearing an enormous oversized sweater with a menorah knitted—badly—into the front. “Baby brother! You made it ahead of the storm!”

“What storm?” he says, muffled by her woolen shoulder as she pulls him down for a hug. She’s not wearing a beanie, though he knows she has several, all made by hand, showing off instead the healthy dark layer of fuzz covering her scalp. He rubs it briskly as she steps back, and she ducks away from his hand, laughing.

“There’s a huge blizzard coming! Isn’t it exciting?”

“By ‘blizzard’ she means two to three inches,” drawls Marian, coming around the corner. “Which, if it sticks, is still likely to hold up the entire city for hours.”

“Hey Mare,” he says, giving her a one-armed hug. She’s looking sleek and put-together in a black dress and sheer black tights lined in gold, skin smooth and makeup perfectly applied, but her chic dark bob smells like strawberries, just like he remembers.

“Happy Hanukkah, Carv.” She kisses him on the cheek and takes the bag from under his arm in the same movement.

“One of those goes under the tree!” he calls as she wanders back toward the kitchen. “Or, uh, whatever it is we have this year.”

“Of course it’s a tree.” Beth tucks one arm through his and reels Fenris in for a hug with the other. “I insisted. Hello, Fen, you’re looking handsome.”

“Thanks,” Fenris says. He kisses the top of her head, which he clears by about two inches. “I’m loving this modern crewcut look that’s been going around, very stylish.”

“Is that my boy? Carver, come in, stop standing around on the mat like a stranger!”

“Coming, Mum!” He squeezes past the narrow entrance hall, toeing off his shoes on the way, and finds his mother in the kitchen, poking at something in the oven. “Something smells delicious.”

“A lot of things, hopefully.” She withdraws from the oven and brushes a few flyaway strands of silver back from her pink face. “Come here, love, let me hug you. Chanukah sameach. Did you bring the wine? Oh, Fenris, you are a love—thank you, thank you. Just set it here and I’ll pour it in a moment.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Leandra. I can pour.” Fenris pulls open a drawer unerringly and retrieves a corkscrew while Carver stands like a befuddled pillar in the midst of a hurricane. His mother is a whirlwind, apron dusted with flour and her hair escaping its knot as she darts from one thing to the next. The kitchen is heavy with the smell of roasting meat and hot oil, and he can hear Bethy laughing riotously in the next room at something Isabela has just said. He sidles over to a cloth-covered dish sitting lonely on the counter and peeks inside.

“Ah, ah! You can wait five minutes, Carver Malcolm Hawke.” His mother shoos him away from the sufganiyot and he lets himself be maneuvered into passing out wine glasses. When he ventures into the living room with three cradled carefully in his hands, Beth is combing over the Christmas tree while Marian and Isabela look on, watching her frantic hunt with twin looks of amusement. He clears his throat.

“Lose something?”

“Bela said my present was in the tree,” Beth calls over her shoulder, “and if I found it I could open it before dinner.”

Carver looks at the top, where a straw-stuffed angel from ages past leans haphazardly, her head mashed against the ceiling and a little silver-wrapped box tucked under her skirts. “You are a cruel, cruel woman.”

Isabela, only a few inches shy of Carver’s towering height, smirks and accepts her glass of wine. “I know. She’ll forgive me.”

The doorbell rings, and Carver dispatches himself to get it. Merrill is standing on the stoop, beaming and holding a foil-covered dish, nearly swimming in a massive red-and-green scarf that winds around her shoulders and trails unevenly down to her knees. “Hello! Happy Christmas, and Hanukkah, and everything. I made pie! It’s kosher, I think—I’m pretty sure, anyway.”

“It’s fine,” Carver says before she can work herself up. “We’re not very traditional around here. Just put it on the counter—can I get your coat, and bag?”

“Oh! Thank you so much.” With some shuffling, she unwinds herself from her scarf and coat, passing them and the canvas bag slung over her shoulder to Carver’s care. Underneath, she’s wearing a pretty red sweater dress sprinkled with strands of tinsel, and white tights with little red bows sewn on. “What do you think? Am I festive enough?”

“I think you’re the most festive person here, except maybe Bethy,” Carver admits. “What should I do with this…?”

“Those are all my presents!” Merrill exclaims. “My presents for other people, I mean. I wasn’t sure if you did gifts? But I thought it was only polite, and if it’s not proper I’ll just take them back.”

“We have a Christmas tree I can put them under,” Carver tells her. “I’ll just go do that.”

Back in the living room, Bethy has given up the search and is turning her nose up at a sip of Marian’s wine. Isabela has decamped to the kitchen, by the sound of it, and Fenris is on the couch with his own glass and his sock toes wriggling steadily against the shag carpet. Carver sets Merrill’s bag down gingerly. “Bethy, can you put these out for me?”

“Ooh! More presents!” She makes a dive for the bag and begins unloading immediately, examining each carefully-drawn label and admiring the wrapping paper. “Merrill is so much better at this than I am. My presents just look like balls of tissue paper.”

“It’s what’s inside that counts, I think,” Fenris reflects. “Don’t you agree, Marian?”

Marian lifts her head from examining her nails, which are a flawless ruby-red and speckled with silver glitter at the tips. “Of course. Especially at this time of year.”

“Who else is coming?” Beth asks, rolling Merrill’s now-empty bag into a loose tube for later.

“Aveline and Donnic should be coming by soon—they’re walking over, if the snow doesn’t put them off,” Marian says. “And they’re bringing Wesley, of course.”

Bethany claps her hands. “Wonderful! I haven’t seen him in ages, he must be so big.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rings. Carver makes a halfhearted movement toward the hall, but Bethy beats him to it, vaulting off the couch like a rocket and skipping to the front door. A moment later they can hear Aveline’s warm voice cutting through the clangor coming from the kitchen. Donnic’s softer rumble comes after with a clumsy but heartfelt _Chanukah sameach, Bethany_ , and then there are pounding footsteps and a three-year-old bundle of lumpy sweater and fire-bright hair cannonballs into the living room.

“Nuncle Carv!”

“Heyo, squirt.” Carver scoops him up before he can dive headfirst into the Christmas tree and tucks him against his side. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas Hanukkah!” Welsey shouts at the top of his lungs. His cheek is already sticky with chocolate, and when Carver lifts up his sweater a handful of foil-wrapped chocolate coins tumble out onto the rug.

“Tsk, tsk. Hoarding the gelt already, little man?”

“Oh goodness. Don, I thought we’d put the rest of them in my bag.” Aveline blows in like a fresh winter’s breeze, smelling of snowfall. Her vibrant hair glitters with melted pearls of water as she takes hold of her son’s chin and wipes his cheek with the sleeve of her candy-cane striped shirt. “Sorry about that. I can take him from you.”

“It’s all right, I’ve got him.” Carver leans in to kiss her cheek. “Happy Hanukkah.”

Aveline smiles. “Chanukah sameach, Carver. It’s good to see you.”

He feels a little pang of guilt at that, even though he knows their busy lives are more to blame than anything else. Aveline is almost a second mother to him, an old family friend who followed them from Canada when they crossed the Pond after Malcolm passed. She served on the local police force for many years before deciding to retire to raise Wesley, and lives in a little house around the corner from his mother with Donnic, her second husband. It’s been several months since he’s seen her or her family, and he lets her fuss over him benignly while the kitchen brims with people and the finishing touches are put on the long rosewood table for dinner.

At last Leandra emerges into the living room, still wearing her apron, and claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “All right! Time for the lighting, is everyone here? Good. Aveline, would you mind doing the honors?”

“Certainly.”

Carver lets himself drift for a moment or two as Aveline goes to fetch matches from the kitchen. Oddly enough, his thoughts turn not toward his childhood or his father, or even his extended family here in London who would no doubt disapprove of this slapdash, haphazard combination of two completely different holidays. Instead he thinks of a long drive through the city, listening to Felix Alexius ramble on about his plans for the season. Standing there in a loose circle with all the most important people in his life, with the smell of fresh pine lingering through the room and the menorah on the windowsill with its candles waiting to be lit, he wonders what it would be like to have Felix here—what he would think of their mishmash of family tradition. When he told Felix that his family didn’t celebrate Christmas, it was only partly true. This—the Christmas tree strung with little paper dreidels, the meal laid out with foods both kosher and non-kosher, and the menorah about to be lit by the displaced daughter of a small-town Canadian rabbi—is complicated, but it’s them. The Hawke family holiday.

Aveline returns, and Carver lets Wesley wrestle his way up to perch on his shoulders for a better view, both chubby legs grounded firmly by Carver’s sturdy grip. The menorah was his first project as a full-fledged carpenter on the payroll at Blackwall and Stroud’s, and seeing it again is like a step back in time. It’s made of olive wood, unvarnished, rubbed to a high shine with layers of wax polish and shaped into long, elegant spools that form the Hebrew word for Hanukkah, _חנוכה_. Along the top are nine little divots to hold the candles, four and four with the ninth in the center. This one Aveline light firsts, before blowing out the match and pinching the tip between spit-damp fingers to extinguish it completely. Then she takes the first candle, the shammus candle, and lights the rest in order from left to right, each careful gesture accompanied by the rise and fall of her voice as she sings the accompanying blessing. She’s likely the only person in the room who has all the blessings memorized in the original Hebrew, but the tune is still familiar to him, and it lifts the hairs on the back of his neck as she finishes and steps back.

Outside the sun has not quite disappeared, and the streetlights illuminate the snow flurrying down to dampen the ground with a fragile layer of white. It’s brighter inside than out, though, and he can see his own reflection in the glass as if it were a mirror, illuminated from below by the nine little flames dancing in an uneven line. For a minute he sees a shadow of his father there, bearded, temples already threaded with grey and a little boy perched on his broad shoulders that could almost be Carver himself. Then Bethy comes to stand next to him, taking his hand, and he shakes off the specter.

“Hungry!” Wesley announces suddenly, kicking his legs against Carver’s firm hold. Intended or not, his enthusiasm breaks the spell of contemplative quiet, and there’s a burst of scattered laughter as Aveline comes to retrieve her son and kiss his freckled cheek.

There’s a bit of a rush for the dining room, as always. Wesley climbs up onto Carver’s lap and refuses to be moved, and Fenris stubs his toe on the way in and has to take a lap around the kitchen to avoid swearing, but in the end everyone finds a seat they’re happy with and the feasting commences in earnest. Carver sits between Fenris and his mother, and lets Wesley pick out what things to put on his (their) plate. Across the table, Isabela is behaving herself and sticking mostly to water, with Bethy next to her keeping up a steady stream of lighthearted conversation. Marian is on her other side, directly across from Carver; their eyes meet a few times during the course of dinner, but where Carver is braced for dismissal or a strained, insincere smile, he only receives commiserating eye rolls or private smirks, usually in response to some anecdote of their mother’s. By the time the last scraps of pie have been cleared away and the chocolate coins passed around—to mixed results, mainly groans at the thought of consuming one more gram of food—he’s let himself begin to relax.

Which is when she strikes, of course. He has abandoned Wesley to the arms of his mother and retreated to the kitchen for a glass of water when she materializes behind him, arms already folded protectively over her chest. He eyes her over his glass as he draws deep, emptying it in one go before setting it down on the counter with a soft _click_.

“Hey.”

“Carv, can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure.” He folds his arms, too, then thinks better of it, stuffing his hands in his pockets instead. Marian is tall, though not as tall as he is—tall like their father, with their mother’s whipcord build—and she meets his eyes easily as she drifts closer to his side of the room.

“Listen. I know you don’t approve of me bringing Bela, but I wanted to ask you to give her another chance.”

He almost laughs in her face, but restrains himself. “I have no quarrel with Isabela, not anymore. What, d’you think I’m going to start a brawl in the middle of opening presents or something?”

She huffs. “No. But the way you look at her makes it clear—”

“I was actually trying to avoid looking at her all damn night!” Carver says, struggling to keep his voice down. The others are just around the corner, after all. “Look, you’re a grown-up now, you can do whatever the hell it is you need to do to feel good about yourself. I won’t say anything, not unless you ask me to. But _don’t_ ask me to like it.”

“Tell me what to do to make this easier. What do you want me to do? Apologize? I’ve said everything I can say, I’ve done what I can to make amends. I know I screwed up when we first moved here—”

“What are you—Mare, that’s ancient history. I forgave you for that a long time ago.”

She stares at him from under her bangs, disbelieving. “Really.”

Carver sighs and pushes his hand through his fringe. “My problem is with Isabela, all right? Not you. I don’t like the way she leads you on and then dumps you when it’s convenient.”

“Oh, right, so _you’re_ the only one allowed to have a complex about romantic relationships.”

“Fucking—!” He cuts himself off and turns around, bracing his hands on the counter. God damn his irascible temper. “Mare, why do we have to talk about this now?”

“Because once you leave tonight with Fen, I’m not going to see you again for weeks. Maybe longer. I was at the Charity Gala, did you know? But you were too busy chumming around with your not-boyfriend to come say hello.”

“For the last time, Fenris is _not_ my boyfriend.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

He turns around to yell at her in earnest and she’s smirking. Damn it. “You know what I mean. And it’s not because I have a _complex_ , Miss Self-Diagnosis.” He snaps his mouth shut before he can make a smart remark about her skipping out on her therapy sessions, as if his track record were any cleaner in that regard. “Look. I want to see more of you. Really. But this isn’t a good time, you know I’m insanely busy at the ’shop with holiday stuff, and you’re off doing… whatever it is you do. Kissing arse, et cetera.”

She snorts, but it’s without heat. “Is that what you think I do all day? Kiss arse?”

“I dunno. Sounds about right to me.” Hands back in the pockets, chin down against his chest. Deep breath. Let it go. Doctor Samson would have told him to count prime numbers until he felt calm again, but fuck him and his useless techniques. He wriggles his toes against the linoleum. “Okay, so. I disapprove of Isabela. I think I’m allowed that much—so does Mum, for god’s sake, I don’t see you having A Talk with _her_.”

“Mum is Mum,” Marian says, waving her hand. “She disapproves of everything I do.”

Carver frowns. “That’s not true.”

“You don’t think so? Well that’s nice. That’s nice, being the golden child. Ah, dammit.” She holds her hand out before he can retaliate. “No, I’m sorry, that was out of line. Just because Mum doesn’t trust me to control my own life doesn’t mean she loves me less than you or Bethy.”

“If you think she trusts _me_ to control _my_ own life, you really haven’t been paying attention.” Irritation still prickles in his throat and reaches cold fingers around his ribcage, but he forces himself not to react to it. Not right now. “I just—I think she doesn’t want you to end up like her.”

Marian stares at him blankly. “What?”

“She told me once—she got lucky. With Dad. Their entire romance was a whirlwind, they barely knew each other when they took off for Canada, but things worked out. Mostly. That doesn’t happen every day, Mare. Or to every _one_.” She’s gone quiet. He leans a little closer so their elbows brush, listening to the pipe and laughter from the other room. “That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Hoping that this time when you throw yourself off the edge, there will be someone to catch you.”

“Yeah, okay, now you sound like my fucking shrink,” Marian mutters. “When did you get so perceptive, anyway?”

“Side effect of spending time with Merrill, I think.” Carver drags one hand out of its protective pocket and puts an arm around her shoulder, awkward. “It’s okay to catch yourself, you know?”

“Hmf. Is that why you’re still single?”

“Fuck off.” He elbows her in the side and she shoves back, lightly. “You know it’s my thing. Lone wolf.”

“Yeah, whatever. Give it time.” She eyes him up and down. “And get a new wardrobe, for god’s sake. Flannel isn’t the answer to _all_ the world’s ills.”

She lets him be, finally. He takes a deep breath and reaches for the West Hill.

A few minutes of quiet and composure later, and he’s ready to return to the party. His Mum has just started clearing the table, so he jumps in, ferrying the heavier dishes to the kitchen and scolding her to sit down for five seconds. By the time everyone is settled down with replenished glasses of wine and the table is clear, he’s happy to flop down on the couch and watch Beth kneel down beside Wesley to help him pass out presents.

“Make sure everyone has one to start, and then you can open yours, okay?”

“Kay!” He roots determinedly beneath the tree, unearthing three all addressed to Leandra before Bethy takes charge, handing him a little wrapped bundle one at a time and whispering the name of the recipient in his ear. When he toddles over to Carver, he accepts the little box with a smile.

“Thanks, squirt. Don’t forget your Mum and Dad, yeah?”

When everyone has a gift—with several more rounds to go, if the bottom of the tree is anything to go by—Wesley starts them off by ripping his own package open in five seconds flat. It’s Carver’s gift to him, incidentally: a simple wooden dreidel with the proper letters painted on in blocky, easy-to-read brushstrokes. Wesley immediately runs to the kitchen to try it on a flat surface, leaving Bethy to pass out the rest of the gifts.

Mostly they’re small things. Carver receives a handmade scarf from Beth, new potholders from his Mum—“Just a little encouragement for you in the kitchen, sweetheart”—and a silver tiepin from Marian, “For the next time you show your face on public television. I can’t believe you let him go without a tie, Bethy.” His gifts to everyone else are handmade: a wooden table lamp for the Hendyrs made from the rich, swirling wood of an oak burl hollowed and spun on the lathe until it gleamed; a new set of wooden mixing spoons for his mum; tiny earrings for Beth, the result of a silversmithing experiment with Thom; and for Marian, an artsy centerpiece bowl made from the same burl as the lampstand, with a naturally-occurring stripe of dark brown carving its way through the twisting grain of the wood.

Bethany’s gift from Isabela is unearthed last—a tiny snow globe with a replica of a tall ship inside, prow lunging forward in the midst of a surging ocean wave. She’s instantly captivated by the minute attention to detail, and spends a little time perched on the arm of the couch beside Carver, shaking it over and over again and watching the tiny flakes settle on the rigging and dust the deck with silver-white. For the first time in a long while, Carver feels himself soften toward Isabela; he disguises this by wrapping Bethy’s scarf firmly around his neck and burying his chin inside it, admiring the soft, rich texture.

“Beth, sweetheart,” their mum says in the aftermath of gift-giving, rubbing her daughter’s stubbled head, “aren’t you forgetting something?”

Bethany smiles slyly—at Carver, for some reason. “I didn’t forget. I just wanted to save the best for last.” She hands him the snow globe for safekeeping and disappears beneath the tree. When she backs out, she’s covered in pine needles and is bearing one last gift, which she presents to Carver with all the gravity of a princess bestowing a favor. “This one is for you. Well really it’s for all of us, but Mum and Mare and Aveline already know, so you get to be the one to open it.”

Carver accepts the cylindrical present, wrapped in layers of mismatched paper stuck on with rather too much tape. After spending a few minutes picking at it with his fingernails while Bethy looks on, wriggling in her seat with excitement and impatience, he gives in and slices it open with his pocket knife. Freed from its prison of holiday cheer, a file folder pops out of shape and several papers spill out. He grabs them hastily and tries to stuff them back into some kind of order, but the topmost page catches his eye—it has the header of Redcliffe Hospital, and at the bottom is the signature of Doctor Lysas, the head oncologist overseeing her treatment. He freezes.

“Bethy…”

“Just read it!” she exclaims, wringing her hand together in anticipation.

The pages are all out of order, filled with diagrams and medical jargon that even after all this time he only half-understands, but the word he sees printed near the bottom of one particular diagram is unmistakable: _remission._ His stomach ties itself in knots and he carefully slides the papers back into their flimsy cardstock folder.

“Bethy, seriously, you’re going to have to say it out loud. I can’t—”

“Remission!” she hollers, and there’s a collective sound of delight and surprise from everyone in the room. “As of my last appointment a few days ago. They’re keeping me on my med cycle for another few weeks, and then they’re going to start consolidation therapy early this coming year.”

“Holy fuck,” he blurts. Then, “Oh my god, Aveline, I’m so sorry—”

But she’s laughing, laughing and crying and holding her hands belatedly over Wesley’s ears, so he knows he’s been forgiven. He lurches up from his seat and drags Bethy into his arms. She’s practically vibrating from excitement, and her soft, new-growing hair tickles his cheek as he buries his face in her neck. “Jesus, Bethy—I can’t believe you _kept it a secret_!” He pulls back, holding her at arm’s length for a moment. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or seriously pissed off. _Jesus_.” But he can’t bear to stop holding her, either, so he pulls her back in and just breathes. Surely the world has just tilted sideways very sharply, because his feet feel like they’re slipping out from under him and he’s not sure which way to lean.

“Here,” Bethy says, saving him. She pushes him back down and crawls into his lap, still far too dainty, especially compared to him. From the side table she produces a tissue, and he presses it to his eyes with one hand while the other wraps firmly around her narrow waist. “Hey,” she whispers, only for his ears, “it’s not over yet. But it’s getting there. Yeah?”

“Getting there,” he echoes. He knows what comes next—aggressive chemotherapy, more medication, maybe even a stem cell transplant, and then waiting. Waiting to see if she relapses, if she takes to the therapy, if she can get her weight back up and start going to school again and eventually find her way to living a semi-normal life. Not for years, yet, but… maybe. Maybe. He holds her just a little tighter. “Love you, Bethy.”

“Love you, too,” she tells him, smiling. “Happy Hanukkah.”

///

“Lift your end—lift! Lift!”

“I’m fucking lifting, yeah? Don’t get your knickers in a twist!”

“Then lift it _more_ ,” Cassandra instructs, not at all put off by Sera’s colorful mouth—literally as well as metaphorically. She’s going through a lipstick phase, and the color of the day is a bright, seasonal turquoise that matches the stripe of electric blue in her fringe. “We’re not getting it through the door otherwise.”

Felix backs up more to give them room, nearly stepping on Josie’s toes. “Oh! Sorry, doll, didn’t see you there.”

“No worries.” She puts a delicate hand on his shoulder and stands on her tiptoes to peer over it. “Cass, love, you’re going to have to angle it a little to the left—yes, perfect. Don’t scrape the leg!”

“I’ve _got_ it, cripes,” Sera mutters without heat. The awkward writing-desk is finally edged through the side door and the two women set it down for a breather. “Bloody thing weighs about ten stone.”

“What else has to come through?” Cassandra asks, hands on hips as she waits for Sera to get her strength back.

Josie peers at her clipboard. In lieu of Dorian, who was starting to overthink everything and descend into a mild panic, Josephine has taken over the minutiae of move-in day, every detail written out in her elegant longhand with neat little checkmarks beside every completed task. The complicated web of items gives Felix a headache just looking at it, but her practiced eye moves over the sheet, each item listed first by room, then by weight, then by importance. “Just the bedframe and the loveseat for the master bedroom—Bran and Cullen already got the mattress in, so that should be our next priority. Felix, I need you to bring in the last box of kitchen appliances and start sorting dishware. I made a map of where everything goes, it’s taped to the fridge.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Why does _he_ get the easy jobs?” Sera complains. “I’m a girl, shouldn’t I be the one putting out forks and shite like that?”

Cassandra flexes her arms and raises one eyebrow. “If you’re going to flap your gab all day I could just carry this upstairs by myself.”

Sera makes a face. “Ugh. Fine. C’mon then, lifty-lifty.”

Felix squeezes past them and holds his breath as he walks slap-bang into the frigid air. The snow from last night hasn’t stuck, precisely, but there’s still white rimes of it clinging to rooftops and gutters, and the air bites through his cable jumper to sink its claws into his chest. He scrambles into the moving van and hunts down the last kitchen box, helpfully marked KITCHEN in Mia’s blocky capitals, and returns to the warmth of the house as quickly as he can.

Rosie Davis, née Rutherford, is in the kitchen when he arrives, unpacking a cooler full of perishables and talking on the phone to her absent husband. She points to the fridge when he enters without breaking the conversation. “…and I told him we weren’t going to be able to make it, he _knows_ this—I know, I know, but we already made plans. Tell Mum to distract him with telly, we already said we’d be there tomorrow. Yeah—okay, no, do _not_ quote me on that…”

Felix ducks past her and locates Josie’s “map.” Everything is neatly drawn out in blue biro, and labeled in tidy print instead of her usual swanning cursive. Thank goodness. He lays it on the island next to the pile of boxes and grabs an exacto knife.

At first, everything goes well. He unpacks two boxes without any problems, and soon the cabinets are full to bursting with matching dinner service and the silverware drawer has been organized and stocked with little extras: measuring spoons, steak knives, spare packets of soy sauce that Cullen hoards from their favorite Chinese takeaway, and one of the three corkscrews Dorian owns from years of awkward office gift exchanges where no one really knows what to get him. At this point Felix begins to tire. Now he’s alone in the kitchen, at least, Rosie having gone off to hunt down her brother, so he lowers himself to the floor and props his back against the cupboard, willing the headache spinning ’round his skull to leave him be.

“Fee?” He hears the voice before the footsteps, and he just barely has enough energy to croak out a reply. Dorian comes around the island and stops short. “Ah. There you are.”

Felix smiles a bit wanly, trying not to let his glumness seep into his voice. “Here I am.”

Dorian is humming with excess energy, flushed with exertion and slightly damp about the moustache, but his whole body seems to fall into a calm fugue as he braces his back against the counter and slides down to sit beside him. “Tired?”

“Just taking a break.”

“The kitchen looks great.”

“Rosie did most of it.” He examines his nails but avoids picking at them. Dorian would pick up on that nasty little habit right away. “How’s the rest of the house coming?”

“Getting there. Master bedroom’s all set, which is the most important part, anyway.” Dorian is smirking by the tone of his voice, but Felix doesn’t look his way. The back of his neck aches, and his feet, and his hands are cold even though the house is a comfortable enough temperature. He tucks them under his armpits. “Gereon said he might stop by later.”

“Just in time for the celebratory dinner,” Felix snarks. He winces. “Sorry, that was a bit mean, wasn’t it?”

Dorian doesn’t agree or disagree, just leans his way until their shoulders and arms are pressed together. “Talk to me, Felix.”

Felix sighs. “Didn’t sleep well last night.” Or the night before that. Or the night before _that_. He’s sort of lost count. “Nightmares.”

“I thought those had gone away?”

“For the most part. Sometimes they decide to come back and dick around in my subconscious for no good reason. It’s been worse lately, I don’t know why.” He sits a little more solidly against Dorian’s weight, silently grateful for his presence. They’re both high-energy people under normal circumstances, but somehow Dorian has perfected the art of putting all of that under wraps when other people need him to—particularly Felix. Particularly right now. It’s… soothing. “I’m getting bloodwork done next week, just before the New Year. I thought I’d ask about it.”

“It can’t hurt.” Dorian fishes around in his pocket and produces his phone, sliding it across the few inches of floor between their knees. “Put the date in my calendar, I can take you.”

For a moment Felix bristles. “I can drive myself.”

“I know. Just thought you’d like the company.”

The fight goes out of him in a rush, and he picks up Dorian’s phone in defeat. He knows the password by heart, and a moment later he’s adding a new event to the calendar app: _bloodwork appt. w/Felix 4.30pm, Dec. 28 th._ “You really don’t have to do this.”

“Well, now I do. It’s in my planner.” Dorian winks, then shifts his back away from the unforgiving cupboards. “Would you like to sit somewhere more comfortable?”

At Felix’s grudging acquiescence, Dorian leads him to the parlor. It’s completely furnished now, with a fire burning low in the gas stove and a thick, luxurious Persian rug covering the malted floorboards. The only thing missing are the bookcases, which Dorian has yet to find out about and god willing won’t discover until his birthday party. Dorian coaxes him onto the sofa, a new purchase the color of a mossy streambed that reaches up to envelop Felix as he sits down.

“If the goal of this little exercise was to keep me awake, that’s not going to happen.”

“Good. Take a nap. No one should disturb you, since we’re all mostly upstairs at this point.” He pauses just inside the doorway and looks back. “Shall I let Gereon know where you are when he arrives?”

It’s a gentle way of asking how poorly he’s feeling, and Felix genuinely isn’t sure of the answer. “If you like,” he answers neutrally, and lets out a soft breath of relief when Dorian leaves him to curl up on the couch by himself.

There’s a knobbly, fashionable knit throw over the back of the couch, and after a minute or two of trying to warm his hands between his thighs he gives up and pulls it over himself. It smells like Dorian’s old apartment—dust and books and evergreen candles, and a little bit like the warm, musky smell of Cullen’s dog—and the comforting familiarity of it warms him almost as much as the material itself.

He loves London, truly, even in the winter, but his body begs to differ. His hands, clammy at the best of times, get cold and stiff even in gloves, so cold they hurt if he spends too long out-of-doors. He has memories of ice skating as a child, or when there was enough snow, partaking in snowball wars with Dorian in the back yard of the Pavus estate. Now he knows if he tried to form even one snowball his fingers would burn with cold. His asthma kicks up a notch around this time of year, too, settling in his lungs like a sticky blanket of spider webs, waiting for a fly to land so they can pull tight and choke him. Mostly, he’s fine. Most days he coasts through without thinking about it—the pills are just a part of life, one more multivitamin to add to the list. And then there are the bad days.

Sometimes he thinks that’s what makes the off-days so much worse. Everything is normal, normal, normal, until suddenly it’s not. And instead of tripping and pressing on again, he falls hard. His appointment is routine, something he’s done a hundred times and more, but this time, instead of hardly thinking about it, he dreads it. There’s a nasty, insidious part of him that says, _why bother?_ Why go at all? What chance is there that your viral load had budged at all since the last time? It’s the same voice that sometimes niggles at the back of his mind when his stomach is rocky and he doesn’t want to force down even a crumb of toast let alone a whole pill of any sort, and it terrifies him. No matter how often he’s stood at his kitchen counter and swallowed, no matter how ingrained the movements are—pill case, water, head back, down the hatch—he’s afraid that one day he might listen.

He’s in a dull, muggy place between sleeping and waking when the couch dips and he feels a warm hand on his forehead. The palm is sturdy and worn smooth with years and years of precise labor, and smells faintly of Old Spice and antiseptic. He hums something unintelligible and draws in a deep, cavernous breath. “’Lo, Dad.”

“Evening.” His father’s fingers card through his hair gently, disrupting the careful shape he’d coaxed it into this morning, but he doesn’t mind. “Dorian said you weren’t feeling well.”

“The weather, I think.” He thinks of the dinner Josephine had planned to celebrate, all of them crowding around a long table at Paragon’s and toasting one another silly, and the image holds no appeal. “What’s everyone up to?”

“They’ve just gone to dinner.” Bugger. “I caught a cab here—why don’t I drive you back to yours and we can order in? I was craving Japanese all day today.”

Reliefs hits him hard in the chest and squeezes the back of his throat in its uncontrollable grip. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

He’s a bit stiff, but at least he’s warm. He shakes off the blanket, and when Gereon rises in the dark and goes to turn the fire out, Felix follows a bit more slowly. Together they leave the house, Felix locking the door behind them, and step out into the frigid night. Felix stifles a cough into his scarf.

“I was thinking of taking a holiday,” Gereon remarks to the frosty world at large. “A week or two in the south of Spain. What do you think?”

Felix doesn’t answer right away, climbing first into the driver’s seat before formulating his response. “You know you work too hard. The break would be good for you.”

“I wouldn’t want to go alone, of course,” Gereon says as if Felix hasn’t said anything. “I’m sure your professors would be understanding.”

“Especially if I played the AIDS card,” Felix grumbles. He starts the car, and it takes a few tries before the engine finally turns over. “Is that what you meant?”

“There’s no need for dramatics, Felix. I was referring to your asthma, of course. The cold and damp is taking its toll on you and it’s barely the New Year.”

“I’ll email Doctor Erasthenes tomorrow,” Felix says, defeated. He can’t deny that the thought of a few weeks somewhere warm and sunny is incredibly appealing. “Are you ordering on the way?”

“Ah, yes. Pork bone or miso?”

“Miso,” Felix replies as he turns out of Dorian’s driveway. He doesn’t think his stomach will favor the fatty richness of pork ramen tonight. “They’re open on Christmas?”

“Not for delivery, but yes. We’ll have to swing by.” Gereon taps away on his mobile for a minute or two, and then returns it to the inner pocket of his wool Belstaff.

The rest of the drive is quiet, but it’s a peaceful quiet. The streets are fairly empty, and they reach the ramen place in record time; Gereon slips out to pay and collect their food, and when he returns the warm, fragrant smell of the broth hits Felix in the back of the throat like a palpable touch. He eyes the plastic cartons all the way home. When they arrive, he lets his father hunt down proper bowls and silverware while he changes into joggers and his warmest slippers. And another scarf, for good measure.

Back in the main room, Gereon has turned the lamps on low and made cups of green tea to go with the twin bowls of noodles steaming gently on the coffee table. “Thanks,” he says, settling onto the couch with a grateful sigh. The clean white microfiber has never felt so soft and inviting. Gereon tucks an extra blanket around his shoulders, ignoring his halfhearted protests, and for a little while they sit in silence, slurping their food and watching the cold, Q-tip sized specks of snow drifting aimlessly against the windows.

Out of the blue, when their stomachs are pleasantly full and their half-full bowls have been returned to the coffee table in favor of tea, Gereon says, “Do you think you’ll want to see Maxwell again?”

 _If I do, it’ll be too soon_ , Felix thinks to himself, but he’s warm and content enough now to push the words away and say something else. “Possibly. If we happen to run into one another. We share increasingly converging circles nowadays, it seems.” Especially if the moon eyes Qarina had been making at Maxwell’s sister in Paragon’s were any indication. Isn’t that a terrifying thought.

“It’s an idle fancy, perhaps, but I had hoped you would become better acquainted,” Gereon continues, and there’s something suspicious in his voice that Felix can’t quite pin down, but he knows not to trust it. His father has something up his sleeve. “I know he was a bit… tipsy… at the gala, but he’s from a good family and he’s been so involved with the renovation work at Dorian’s new house….” Gereon trails off, obviously seeing the look of horror dawning on his son’s face. “What?”

“Dad... what have you done?”

Gereon clears his throat. “I may have invited him and his sister to Dorian’s birthday fete, in fact.”

Felix groans. “You didn’t! Dad, he’s such a kiss-arse, you have no idea. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I spent most of the gala being dragged around to talk to all the bigwigs, and the rest of it hiding in the back hall with Qarina.” His mind is already working furiously to map out the twisting halls and mismatched rooms in Dorian’s new house,  plotting the best ways to keep away from Maxwell’s limpet-like tenacity. “Now I’m going to be spending the entire party trying to avoid him.”

“I… apologize,” Gereon says hesitantly. “Clearly I’ve not done any better this year than any of the years before.”

“I don’t see why I have to bring a dinner date to every bloody event, is all,” Felix says, more tired than annoyed. “ _You_ don’t. Qarina didn’t this year, or her cousin. Or the keynote speaker, that Anders fellow. I’d much rather take the luck of the draw and sit beside some stranger for the duration of the meal than be stuck with one unavoidable idiot for the entire evening.”

Gereon clears his throat. “Quite. I, ah. I thought perhaps you would not be opposed to a date with a man, but it seems I was mistaken.”

And there it is. Felix takes a breath to reply and hesitates. His father is clearly fishing for a definitive answer—any more stalling would be ridiculous. So. It’s now or never. “You weren’t mistaken, Dad.” He forces himself to meet his father’s eyes. Gereon is looking back patiently, mouth soft and fond, with a bit of something from his soup stuck to his cheek. All of his nervousness melts away. “I like men and women both; have done for a while, I just… haven't done much of anything about it. I wasn't trying to keep it a secret. There just never seemed to be a good time to tell you.”

Gereon's eyebrows fold unhappily, transforming his face in one moment from tender to miserable. When he reaches for Felix’s hand, Felix takes it, unsure of what to expect. “My dear boy. I'm so sorry.”

“For what?”

“You said there never seemed to be a good time—and that's my fault, isn't it? I let my work consume everything else, and I don't try hard enough to make time for _you_ , the most important thing in my life.”

“Dad…” Felix begins, helpless in the face of this sudden shift in mood, but Gereon waves him quiet.

“No, let me finish. Back when you were first diagnosed, I saw you every day. I'm sure you remember—it was a flurry of appointments and visits to the pharmacy and bloodwork, bringing you soup and homework, talking to your professors when you were too sick to leave the house. My professional life suffered, but it didn't matter—I thought I was going to lose you, Felix. And it's strange to say, but in some ways I think we were closer then than we are now.” He huffs a miserable laugh. “Isn't that awful? All that time doting on you, _smothering_ you I have no doubt, and here I can barely make enough time in my week to see you for coffee. Do you know, those first months I considered going back to school and entering the field of HIV/AIDS research. But I knew it would take far too long, time I would rather spend with you, so I paid people to research in my place. And look at me now.” He gestures between them with his free hand, contemptuous. “Seeing you a couple times a month if we're lucky, so out of touch with your life I'm trying to set you up with—with bloody ignorant prats like _Trevelyan_ , of all people!”

“Dad,” Felix chokes, laughing past the stinging in his eyes, “I forgive you, okay? Your job is important, I get that.”

Gereon shakes his head, and his fingers are warm and alive on Felix's cheek. “Not as important as you.” He reaches for him, and Felix burrows into his arms, warm and solid as they were when he was a boy. Gereon’s weathered hand descends to Felix's head where it rubs slow, soothing circles in his hair, reminiscent of the early days when his medication gave him raging headaches and it seemed the only cure was his father's patient touch. “I want to make more time for you,” Gereon says, politely ignoring the slow drip of tears onto his shirt. “Tomorrow I'm going to sit down with Fiona and work out a schedule that allows me to take afternoons off here and there, barring emergencies, and I'll come bother you in the library or take you out to lunch until you’re heartily sick of me. How does that sound?”

His throat is too tight to speak, but he nods, and Gereon understands.

“As for a holiday, let me know when you think you can take a break from your studies. Surely you don't need Doctor Erasthenes breathing down your neck _every_ week.”

“I think he can survive on email updates for a little while,” Felix says. He sniffles, and his father gives him enough slack to sit up and reach for a tissue before settling back down again. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear.”

He feels a kiss on the top of his head, brief but sincere. Gradually the fist around his throat relaxes, and he falls asleep this way, curled in his father’s arms like a child and warm enough that he can feel the soft, scratchy texture of Gereon’s wool jumper ticklish against the tips of his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: alcohol consumption; references to HIV, cancer, and mental illness.
> 
> A note on updates (lots of housekeeping for this chapter, my apologies): I want to try for one more chapter between now and Christmas, which is less than usual, but we'll see how it goes. The reason for the delay is: I'm writing a twelve-days-of-Satinalia fic based on the romcom "You've Got Mail" with Felix and Carver in a modern Kirkwall. One chapter a day starting December 13, so my updating of Secrets might be limited. 
> 
> A few fun notes: I've had the pleasure of visiting London a few times, and I love Highbury hill SO MUCH. The homes are beautiful and there's a ton of wisteria everywhere in the summer, so I just had to put Leandra and Bethy in that area. The alcohol types mentioned by Carver are pulled straight from the Bottles of Thedas codex, although I did play with the West Hill brandy description a bit. Bethy's "infamous cranberry relish" comes from my aunt's similar concoction, which features cranberries and oranges and absolutely NO sugar. I can't stand to choke it down, but Fenis no doubt has a more refined (sour) palate. And the ramen joint Gereon and Felix patronize is based off a similar restaurant in my own city, Furoshiki, which is frickin delicious; the pork bone ramen is my favorite.
> 
> the menorah I based Carver's off of can be seen here: http://judaicajournal.blogspot.com/2008/08/wood-you-say-chanukah.html


	6. 6.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felix and Carver do not go on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness I am SO sorry for the long wait! I was seized by an intense need to write a Christmasy fever fic based on You've Got Mail, and I discovered that switching between two different stories with two VERY different moods is really hard for me. But hopefully that fic was able to tide you over! I hope everyone's holidays are at least tolerable, and at best very festive and full of good cheer. <3

The New Year comes and goes, and with it the Knight Club’s first fencing demonstration at the Rutherford-Dumar Rehabilitation Centre. Carver is half-hoping—all right, perhaps a little more than _half_ —that Felix will be there, but there’s no sign of him or Dorian amongst the gathered crowd, so he throws himself cheerfully into the bouts with no distractions and does more than honorably for himself. That out of the way, he can turn his attention completely to his commissions. With the end of the holiday season, incoming work has slowed to a crawl; faced with the threat of repetitive busywork, he pours hours and hours into Felix’s commission, working far past his allotted hours to perfect everything down to the tiniest detail.

He’s in the ’shop around midafternoon in early January, straining the joints in his fingers to get the perfect curve on a coiling vine, when the workroom doors swing open and someone steps inside on silent cat feet.

“Hawke. Can I speak with you?”

Carver looks up from his work to see Fenris lingering just inside the doors. “Course. Come on in.” He pushes away from the work table and swings around to face the other seat. Letting his backpack slump on the floor at his feet, Fenris sits and tucks his legs up, feet propped on the rungs of the stool so that his knees poke out like stork legs beneath his black knit poncho. Fen clears his throat and folds his hands in his lap, and says nothing.

Carver waits. He doesn’t stare him down, but he doesn’t ignore him either, just twirling his straight gouge between thumb and forefinger until Fenris clears his throat and says, “I moved out of my flat today.”

“Good on you,” Carver says immediately, surprised and trying not to show it. He’s been to Fen’s place a few times—not as often as a best mate would normally warrant, but it’s not exactly an ideal situation—and he can’t pretend he isn’t a little bit relieved. A _lot_ relieved, actually. Since the disastrous end of a long-term relationship five years ago, only just after meeting Carver, Fenris has lived in a few different places, but this one is by far Carver’s least favorite. It’s a crummy tenement at the arse end of Shoreditch, four people all living together like sardines in a grimy, tiny-windowed flat. Considering Fenris despises close quarters and suffers debilitating claustrophobia, it’s no wonder he’s finally snapped. “You’re crashing at mine, yeah?”

Fenris gnaws on his lower lip. “If that’s all right. Just until I can find another place.”

“You could just move in, you know,” Carver says gently. “Don’t even sign the lease if you don’t want, just chip in for the rent. I know you can afford it now, all the photo gigs you’ve been getting lately.”

“I…” He wants to say yes. Carver knows it. But there’s something in him that won’t quite let him, and Carver can’t figure out what it is.

“One month,” Carver says. “Just one month, say yes. Pay me half rent if you want, try and find another place to live, but so help me if I hear you’ve been sleeping on a park bench somewhere, I’ll…”

One corner of Fen’s mouth is curling reluctantly upward. “You’ll what?”

“I don’t know. Pick a nearby bench, I suppose. Bring cocoa.”

“You’ll sleep on a park bench with me?”

“I didn’t say it was a _good_ plan.”

Fenris huffs gently. “Yes, fine. One month.” He turns abruptly, bending to rummage in his backpack. He emerges with his wallet, so thick it’s nearly circular, and he counts out a few hundred quid and presses them into Carver’s hand. “That should cover it, yeah?”

“And groceries,” Carver agrees without counting. He slips the bills into his back pocket. “Where’s your stuff?”

“Behind the desk.” He jerks his head toward the sales floor. “Merrill’s got it for now.”

“I think she’s getting off in a little while. I know she’d be happy to help you move in, and you both have spare keys, yeah?”

Fenris inhales. “Thank you.” And lets it out slow. His white knuckles relax against his knees and he offers a slightly unsteady smile. “I appreciate it, Hawke.”

“Merrill will be ecstatic, honestly. She’ll be bringing you homemade cookies pretty much instantaneously.”

“Hmm. My ultimate life goal.”

Carver is drawing breath to reply with some aimless quip when his phone rattles on the table, making him jump. Fenris snorts at him as he reaches for it and slides the screen open.

_Hello, it’s Felix. Is it a good time to drop in and check on your progress?_

Carver stares. “What on earth…?”

“Is that my cue?” Fenris wonders.

“It’s… uh, Felix. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to hear from him. We’ve got a meeting already scheduled in a few days, I’m not sure why he’s…”

“It’s fine. I have some… errands to run.” He’s already sliding off the stool and scooping up his backpack. “I’ll have a chat with Merrill on my way out and I’ll see you at yours.”

“Ours,” Carver reminds him. Fenris waves his fingers in a _toodle-oo_ sort of gesture, but Carver can tell he’s smiling into his coat collar as he lopes out the door.

He looks back at his phone where Felix’s text is still waiting. _Sure. I’m at the shop now til 6, come by whenever._ He holds onto it for a little while longer, but no reply is forthcoming, so he puts it back in his apron pocket and exchanges it for the straight gouge as he bends back over his work.

He puts in his earbuds while he waits—which he wouldn’t normally get away with, but Stroud is still on vacation—so he doesn’t hear the ’shop door opening and closing, and he doesn’t hear Blackwall directing Felix to the workroom. He doesn’t notice he’s there at all until he catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looks up to find Felix standing patiently at the end of the table, watching him work with a faint smile on his tired face.

“Hey,” he says, yanking his earbuds out. Ouch. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you—you weren’t waiting long?”

“No.”

Carver doesn’t think he’s ever heard Felix give a one-word response in the entire time he’s known him—which, admittedly hasn’t been for very long. He brushes away some stray curls of wood and scoots off his stool to give Felix a better look. “I’ve got the backs and sides cut and sanded to measure, and now I’m starting work on the faces. You said no to stained glass, right?” A nod. Fair enough. Felix has approached the table and is looking very intently at Carver’s work, hands folded discreetly behind his back. “You can touch, if you like. I’ve worked out a schedule with Trevelyan Glass and Laird is going to send in a guy to take measurements tomorrow. If all goes according to plan we’re looking at a January tenth finish date, give or take a day.”

“This is beautiful,” Felix says at long last, tracing the contoured edge of one twisting vine. “Do you mind if I just sit and watch for a bit?”

“Course not.” He doesn’t think there’s any rules against it—Stroud does demos all the time, after all. Usually for a small fee and scheduled ahead of time, but again, Stroud isn’t here, and considering Felix’s shared history with Thom, Carver thinks it’ll be fine. “Just grab a stool from wherever. D’you mind music?”

Felix shrugs amiably. “It’s your studio.”

True. Carver pops the earbuds out of his phone and sets it on the worktop well away from his tools. It’s set to a playlist of ambient Nordic music that feeds well into background noise and energizes him without distracting from the task at hand, and even through the crappy speakers the rhythms are soothing. He rummages around in his kit for the perfect grit of sandpaper and lets himself follow the hum of the music.

Six o’clock comes and goes, as it usually does, and Thom comes by around half past to kick him out so he can lock up. Felix, oddly, is still there: quiet and pensive, reacting slowly to the hum of movement that surrounds him like an island. Carver cleans up and puts away his tools in silence, drapes the cabinet door in newspaper and slaps a piece of masking tape over it, scrawled with his name and the date for work tomorrow, and grabs his coat from the rack in the office.

When he comes back, Felix is still there, hands in his pockets and his eyes wandering around the studio with no particular direction. On a whim, Carver asks, “Are you busy?”

Felix seems to startle, though he was standing right there while Carver put his coat on. “I—what do you mean?”

“I mean, do you have anything on? I’m headed home, but I was thinking of swinging by Harold’s for a cuppa first, if you’d like to join. Not as…” He waves his hand in a vague gesture that describes absolutely nothing. “Not as my client.”

“As what, then?” Felix asks quietly.

“Friends?” Carver offers. _You look like you could use one_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. Felix would take it the wrong way. He knows he has friends, obviously; but currently he isn’t with any of _them_. He’s here, with Carver, perfectly content to let the silence drag out between them as he mulls over his answer.

“Yeah, all right. That would be good.”

“Right.” He bites back any further awkward waffling and leads the way through the workshop doors.

Stepping outside, Carver has to swallow a reflexive cough as the cold hits his lungs like daggers. Felix buries his face in the thick cowl of his scarf—a handsome moss green today, flecked with a soft rust-brown in a tiny hound’s-tooth pattern—and digs his hands deeply into his pockets. Carver clears his throat.

“We can take my car, if you’d rather?”

“It’s just around the corner.”

Carver shrugs agreement and soldiers on. It's the sort of day where everything is slowed and highly-magnified by the cold. Every brittle tree branch is stark and skeletal against the brownish-grey of a late London afternoon, and the passing cars seem to stain his coronas with faded color like an old photo negative overlapping the new. He can feel the pinkness rising in his cheeks as the cold sinks in, and by the time they reach Harold’s he’s regretting not wearing a scarf of his own. Felix seems better off in his heavier coat, but as the door clangs just behind them he fishes an inhaler out of his pocket and takes a quick puff.

“Asthma,” he explains when he’s breathing normally again. “Winter is shite for it.”

Guilt sours Carver’s stomach. “We should have taken my car.” It wouldn’t have warmed up all that much during the ride, but at least he would have been out of the wind.

“Don’t worry about it,” Felix says brusquely, in the way Bethy does when she’s telling Carver off for being too smothering, so he drops it and steps up to the till.

“Five pounds twenty,” Cole says when he rings them up. Carver digs stubbornly in his pocket for his wallet and passes over a tenner, ignoring Felix’s vague protests.

“I owe you for the coffee.”

Felix looks puzzled for a moment before he catches on. “That wasn't an IOU, you know.”

“Then neither is this. Cole, can we get tea cozies with these?”

“Already done,” the boy assures him.

Felix’s tea comes first, slid across the counter in a massive ceramic mug with a generous handle. It’s wrapped in a green knitted cozy, courtesy of Bethy,  who can't shake her guilt at having to take an extended leave from work and is trying to make up for it in every possible way. Felix picks it up right off the saucer and sighs in relief as the muted warmth seeps into his hands.

“Matches your scarf,” Carver says, watching the steam curl up and fog across Felix’s glasses. When he grins, his eyes nearly disappear entirely, and he blows across the surface of the tea to cool it.

“So it does.”

“Your fingers are blue,” Cole observes from the other side of the counter.

“Poor circulation,” Felix murmurs, more to Carver than to Cole, who has already drifted away to make Carver’s drink. “I’ll be all right.”

After a short wait, full of the smell of fresh-ground espresso beans and the gurgling hiss of steamed milk, Carver’s Chilean latte arrives, dressed in a blue cozy with a little white sprig of flowers embroidered on. They adjourn to the far side of the room, away from the drafty come-and-go of the front door, and settle into a pair of armchairs while Carver wracks his brain, wondering what on earth he thinks he’s doing. Is this a date? A friendly outing? Was Felix just humoring him by accepting his offer of a drink? He wants desperately to text Fenris and ask, but he’s paralyzed at the thought of being rude in front of the Felix, so he refrains.

Across the way, entirely unaware of Carver’s state of panic, Felix sticks his nose practically inside his mug and hums. “Thank you for this. It’s just what I needed.”

“Rough day?” Carver croaks, taking the opening for what it is. He realizes he can’t remember what Felix _does_. He’s studying… something. Maths? Are the universities even open right now, the first few days after the New Year? With Bethy out of school, he no longer has a handle on the schedule.

“Mmm. Sort of. Not a bad one, but not a good one either.” He glances up through glasses that are still half-fogged with steam and the warmth of the café. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re just very… quiet, today. Not that I mind, I’m just used to a lot more noise from you. Generally. Not _bad_ noise, just…” He breaks off his rambling and looks determinedly into his coffee.

“I had an appointment today,” Felix says. He doesn’t seem to notice Carver’s foot-in-mouth moment; or if he does, he’s kind enough not to show it. “At Redcliffe. So I was in the area—I’m sorry if I broke into your routine, I wasn’t very considerate.”

Oh. He’s gripped by a fierce desire to ask _what sort of appointment_ , but they’re definitely not at that level yet. “You didn’t break my routine. I mean, I guess you sort of did, but I don’t mind. It’s good for me to be spontaneous—that’s what Bethy tells me, anyway.”

“She’s your twin?” Felix hedges, half-smiling.

“Yeah. Way more adventurous than I am.”

“I, um… I heard about your sister, by the way, through the grapevine—this is so nosy of me, I apologize—but I wanted to, I don’t know. Congratulate you. That’s not horribly intrusive of me, is it?”

“Not at all,” Carver says, surprised but not offended. Considering all the acquaintances they have in common, it’s no wonder Felix heard the news. “It’s not a secret. And thank you. It's far from over, but we’re getting there. I'll be going in for bloodwork in a few weeks to see if I can be a stem cell donor.”

“You mean it’s not automatic, because you’re twins?”

“Unfortunately not. If we were identical, possibly, but we’re not. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Felix echoes. A little of the quiet melancholy he carried with him into the ’shop has melted away, and with it the stiff, bone-hard way he’s been holding himself. He sits back in his armchair, no longer quite so guarded, and eyes Carver over the rim of his cup. “I’m glad you don’t mind my intruding. You’re very easy to be around, you know?”

“Am I?” Carver says, mystified. He only feels clunky and awkward, as if he’s reading out a script for the first time while Felix has already memorized his lines.

“You’re good at… quiet. Like an island of calm—everything flows around you busily, and there you are, unmoved by it. How do you manage it?”

The list rattles itself out in his head: long nights sitting up in hospital waiting rooms. Years of raucous, good-natured torment from a high-energy older sister. A funeral, with a dark, stiff suit enfolding him like a coffin, and his mother begging him not to cry, not to make a scene. His fingers curls tighter around his mug. “Lots of practice.”

He’s half-tempted to look around, to check the time or to see if there are other people in the café at all; it feels like they’re entirely alone, in their own bubble of warm company, and it’s a bit surreal. But Felix holds his gaze, effortless—the line of his coat splashed open against the arm of the chair, the neat tuck of his crossed ankles, his fingers grown pink around the warmth of the tea cozy. And just as Felix said, he feels no pressure to fill the silence. Until Felix breaks it suddenly, with a shake of his head and a soft, huffed laugh.

“I can’t believe I used to be afraid of you.”

Carver is aghast. “Wait—you _were_? Why?”

“It seems so silly now. You were just… very tall, the first day I walked into the carpentry. And angry.”

“It wasn’t a good day,” he explains. “It was a chemo day for Bethy, and I still had to come in to work after because of the holidays. Wasn’t feeling a lot of festive cheer.”

“I know what you mean.” His mouth moves without sound, briefly, as if he wants to speak but is second-guessing himself. Then he says, “I’m the same way after hospital visits.”

There it is again. Is he dropping hints on purpose, asking Carver to take the bait? “I’ve spent too much of my life in hospitals for them to be enjoyable,” he says, carefully neutral.

“Agreed. Even today—it was just routine bloodwork, but I get all morose anyway.” He makes a little scoffing sound at himself, but Carver shakes his head.

“All I have to do is walk inside and the smell is enough to make me anxious. I’d rather sleep off the flu rather than go see a doctor, most times.”

Felix’s expression turns introspective, and for a moment Carver regrets pursuing this line of discussion. Then Carver’s mobile trills, loudly, and he jerks almost hard enough to spill his coffee into his lap. He drinks the rest of it down and sets the cup on a side table before fishing his mobile out of his pocket. It’s Fenris.

_you planning on coming home ever? merrill wants takeaway_

He checks the time and cringes. How is it half seven already? “Shit, it’s later than I thought.”

“You have an engagement?” Felix asks, sitting forward in his chair with apology written all over his face.

“Not precisely. Fenris—you met him, right?—he’s moving into my place temporarily, and he wants to know when I’m getting home. I expect I’m about to be pressed into service as a takeaway delivery boy.”

“I should let you go, then. Thank you for indulging me in my…” He trails off.

“Thank you for stopping by,” Carver counters. “I… you’re welcome to tag along, if you like. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

“I haven’t, but—I should get going, myself. But thank you for the invitation.” He glances into his mug, which is still half-full. “Are we still on for our consultation in a few days?”

“Absolutely.” He stands, feeling oddly like he should shake hands. Or maybe just take his hand and hold it a little while. But that would be ridiculous, and entirely out of line, so he just scoops up his cup to take back to the counter. “I’ll see you then.”

Felix smiles, sitting forward in his chair but making no move to follow him. “See you, Carver. Have a good night.”

“And you.” He’s out of things to say. With a last jerky nod, he turns away and drops off his mug at the counter before making his way out into the blustery winter evening.

///

When Carver lets himself into his flat, it almost doesn’t seem different at all. There’s a new potted plant on the windowsill, although that could just be Merrill any other day of the week, and he recognizes an extra pair of Fenris’ shoes lined up at the door. The real tell is that Merrill and Fenris are side-by-side on yoga mats in front of the windows, contorted into some sort of arse-over-teakettle position that makes Carver’s back hurt just to look at.

“I see you’re all moved in,” he calls, heading straight for the kitchen and the teakettle.

“This is a one-time thing.” Fenris’ voice is muffled by his own stomach. There’s a gentle thump, a cluck from Merrill, and then Fenis is padding into the kitchen on bare feet with his hair damp and his shirt sticking to his chest with sweat. “She’s teaching me techniques for reducing back pain. How was…” he lowers his voice, “your date?”

“It wasn’t a date.” The kettle hums to life and he pulls two mugs from the shelf over the sink. “Merr, tea?”

“Please!” she squeaks.

Down comes a third mug, one of the few useable ones Bethy produced in her Ceramics course a few semesters ago, heavy and thick-bottomed with an artful rendition of a daisy on one side. Carver fills the electric kettle with water and leans against the counter, toying with the words reverberating around his skull like a gong. Fenris pulls the tea canister forward to the edge of the counter and roots around for his favorite kind, very studiously _not_ looking at him.

“If it wasn’t a date, what was it?”

From the other side of the room they can hear the _thump_ of Merrill’s feet hitting the floor. “Carver, you had a date?” she cries. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t a date!” Carver exclaims. “He’s a _client_. It was a… consultation. A very… casual… oh hell, I don’t know.” He drops in tea bags and leans against the counter, pulling at his hair with his fingers. Fenris props his hips against the cupboards, nonplussed.

“Well? Give me details, Hawke. I have no advice to give unless you can actually tell me what happened.”

“Well, he texted me—you know, you were there. Asked to see my progress, even though we’ve got an appointment in a few more days, but whatever, he’s committed to the details. Fine. So he comes over and… is very… quiet. Sort of like he was feeling under the weather, not very sociable, but he wanted to stay and watch me work. And when I finished he was still there, so I… invited him to coffee.”

Fenris’ eyebrows disappear into his fringe. “Really. That’s quite bold of you, Hawke, I’m impressed.”

“But was it a _date_?”

“I don’t know, did it feel like one?”

“What did you talk about?” Merrill interjects as Carver moves to pour the hot water. She’s perched herself on top of the kitchen table and is swinging her legs back and forth, showing off her sparkly fuchsia toenails and orange tights. “The commission?”

“I mean, a little, I guess. Mostly we talked about… quiet.”

“Quiet.” Fenris’ eyebrows have reappeared and are making a serious effort at sinking below his eyes. “Hawke…”

“It’s hard to explain! It was so odd, like we were the only two people in the world talking about… real things. Serious things, things that were important to us.”

“Sounds like a date to me,” Merrill offers.

Fenris snorts. “Yes, the sort of date you have after you’ve been seeing someone for a good six months and you’re ready to take the next step. For a first date, I’m not so sure.”

“Yes, you see my predicament.” Carver sighs and picks up his mug to carry it over to the sofa. “Well, never mind. It’s over, it happened, there’s nothing I can do about it now but wait.” He can see Fen and Merrill exchanging looks from the corner of his eye, but he ignores them. “Didn’t I hear something about someone wanting to order takeaway, or did I hallucinate that?”

“Oh! Me! I did!” Merrill exclaims, tripping off the table and digging around immediately in the junk drawer for takeaway menus. “Fenris, what are you in the mood for?”

“You pick,” Fenris says benevolently. He glides across the room with his own mug and tucks himself at the other end of the couch, feet curled out of sight and eyes serious. “Carver. You really have a thing for this… Felix. Don’t you?”

“I mean, I think he’s cute.” After the afternoon he’s just had, that feels like rather an understatement. “There’s something about him that… clicks with me. Ugh, that’s so cliché. Anyway, it doesn’t matter if he’s cute or not—I’m not looking for anything right now.” He glares at Fen’s incredulous eyebrow. “I’m not! We discussed this already.”

“You’re allowed to change your mind, you know,” Fenris drawls.

“Well I’m not changing it.”

“And what about this not-date of yours? What if he texted you _right this second_ and asked if you wanted to get dinner sometime?”

The idea of it fizzles in his belly, both pleasant and nerve-wracking. It’s been a while since he’s done this—the dating game, the flirting, the light conversations about meaningless trivia that he feels can never scratch the surface of his self. In that context, whatever he just had with Felix was not a date. It was something weightier, more important. He shakes off the thought. Felix is a client, nothing more and nothing less. Whatever happens once the final bill is paid and the shelves are delivered is up to fate.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, “and it doesn’t matter, because it has about as much chance of happening as _you_ have of texting Blondie and asking him out.”

“Blondie?” Fenris echoes, lip curled in a moue of disgust. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”

“Better than ‘the hot mystery man who sometimes frequents the club I work at.’”

“Fair. But the point is invalid, considering I don’t have _Blondie’s_ number, nor does he have mine.” He sips his tea slowly, glaring at Carver over the rim of his mug. “We’re not talking about me, anyway. We’re talking about you and your lack of romantic initiative.”

“That’s not a thing,” Carver scoffs.

“It is now. I just invented it.”

Carver considers this, and rejects it out of hand. “That’s nice, but I’m not done prying yet. Did you talk to him at all after you punched him in the face? Are you going to see him again?”

He snorts. “I suspect I will see him again, yes. Unless he decides to shun the club entirely for fear of running into me, which is a distinct possibility. I… apologized, before we left Paragon’s, but I don’t think he believed me.”

“He knows you’re the bouncer at his favorite haunt, then?”

“Of course. These are quite unmistakable.” He trails one finger over his chin and down his throat, following the path of the white tattoos that trace their delicate lines into his dark skin. Carver knows they glow in the dark. A hell of a view under black lights, but a little harder to see in broad daylight, or in the dark corner of a pub when someone’s sucking on your throat.

The pensive quiet is broken gently when Merrill pads into the room, like a soap bubble collapsing under its own weight. “I’ve decided on Indian, but I can’t remember which one delivers. You’ve got three here, Carver, which one do you recommend?”

“Rami’s,” Carver replies without even looking. “They all deliver, but Rami’s is the best.”

“Oh, good. I’m so looking forward to this.” She plops herself down on the couch between them with the menu spread out on her lap, and they bend their heads together decide what to get.

///

“You’ve got to be joking,” Thom says as they turn up the drive. Carver stifles a laugh.

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucking impressive. Just wait ’til you see the inside.”

No sooner has Blackwall cut the engine than the front door opens and Felix emerges, two other men right on his heels: Cullen, wrapped up warmly in a brick red flannel that Carver is sure he has several versions of in his own closet, and an enormous broad-shouldered giant who could probably snap Carver like a twig without batting an eyelash. “Ah,” Carver says under his breath, “the help.” Blackwall snorts and they climb out of the van.

“You’re here!” Felix says, coming up to them as if their arrival is a sheer miracle. Given the circuitous directions, perhaps it is. “This is Cullen and Bull, they’re here to look pretty and also to help, if you need.”

“Thomas Blackwall,” says the man in question, shaking their hands in turn. “Good to meet you. If you don’t mind giving us a hand unloading, we can get started.”

It’s a bit of a precarious dance, but between them they get the bubble-wrapped pieces out of the van and into the house. Felix directs them, voice thick with amusement as Bull struggles to wedge himself past a tight corner and, later, as Carver nearly drops his end when Cullen’s grip falters, but eventually they have all the pieces safely in the parlor and they can get to work properly. The others stand about curiously, watching as the room is filled with the whine of the power drill and the grind of glass on wood; there’s a breathless moment where Carver is afraid the angle of the left cabinet face is slightly off and he’s going to have to take sandpaper to the finish right here in the sitting room, but at last they’re fully installed and ready for a wipe-down.

“Well done, young Hawke,” Thom mutters under his breath as he passes over the Windex. Carver bites back a smile at the praise and settles down on his haunches to clean the glass.

“I’ve got a broom somewhere,” Cullen says, “let me just go—”

He stops abruptly and they all look at one another. From somewhere inside the house, a door slams shut and footsteps come creaking down the hall. Felix whirls on Cullen.

“You said he was going to be out all day!”

“He was!” Cullen whispers back, wide-eyed. “He said he had errands to run and he’d be back in time to start party prep.”

“Quick, out of the room, all of you,” Felix says, fluttering his hands. Carver and Thom scramble upright, leaving their power tools and the sawdust all in a pile, and they’re nearly to the door when Dorian walks in and freezes, one hand on the antique glass doorknob. His eyes travel from Cullen and Felix to the others, utterly confused, and then they fall to the bookcases.

“What on earth…?”

“Er.” Felix shuffles his feet like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit jar. “Happy birthday?”

Confusion bleeds away into understanding, and then into awe, a slow smile that turns suddenly into a boyish grin. “You had these made for my birthday? Felix, you sneak!”

“Not a very good one, apparently,” Felix grumbles as Dorian walks across the room to examine them more closely. “You weren’t supposed to be back for hours yet.”

“I realized I had most of what I needed already, so I cut the trip short,” Dorian says, but his voice is faint and distracted. He sidesteps the power tools neatly and brushes the rich, curling woodwork with a careful hand. “My god, these are beautiful. Who made them?”

“Carver,” Thom and Felix say in unison.

Now Carver feels like the one caught snitching biscuits. He tries not to flush as Dorian turns on him, beaming and full of praise, and fails. “I’m glad you like them,” he forces out, a bit gruffly, but no one seems to mind—least of all Dorian.

“I’m in love with them, truly. I must have books put on them immediately. And you _must_ come to the party tonight—I won’t take no for an answer. You’re immensely talented, and since I’m not the one paying you I must show my thanks somehow.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“Nonsense,” Dorian interrupts, and Carver senses that he won’t be swayed on this. “You and Thom must make an appearance, and you can bring whoever you like, there will be plenty for everyone. Drinks are at six and we’re having finger foods at seven, there will be plenty of people you already know—the Amells and the Adaars, for starters, and most everyone who was at Paragon’s. Say you’ll come?”

“I guess we don’t have a choice,” Carver accedes, half-laughing. “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_.” Dorian pumps his hand, still grinning, and finally pulls away to corral his boyfriend with an arm through his elbow. “Come along, darling, we have boxes to cart down.”

Cullen sighs, falsely longsuffering. “ _More_ boxes? I just hauled them all up there yesterday.”

“It’s good for your muscle tone, dear.”

They leave the room arm in arm, still bickering easily, and Felix shakes his head. “Well, that went better than I hoped. Thank you, all of you—I really appreciate it.” He shakes all their hands in turn, Bull and Thom and then Carver, and his hand against Carver’s is as warm and smooth as he remembers from the day he first walked into the ’shop. Carver glances down, and his nails are still perfect. His face warms, and he tucks both hands into his pockets.

“My pleasure,” he says quietly. “We’ll just clean up real quick and be out of your hair.”

Felix smiles, and maybe he’s speaking to the room at large but his eyes are entirely on Carver. “It’s no trouble. Let me just hunt down that broom.”

///

“Bloody hell, what am I doing.”

“We’re going to a party!” Merril chirps from the back seat. Her feet are propped up on the center console between Carver and Fenris, clad in sparkly ballet flats that catch and reflect the passing lights of London’s night. “Did you forget?”

“He didn’t forget,” Fenris says patiently. “He’s having second thoughts. Cold feet, if you will.”

“This is hardly a wedding, Fen.”

“Close enough.” Fenris jabs him in the side as he turns onto Dorian’s street and slows the car to a crawl. “No backing out now, Hawke, you already told him you would be there. In front of Felix, no less. You’re expected. And Blackwall couldn’t make it, so you have to be there to represent the ’shop.”

Carver’s knuckles whiten on the wheel. “Don’t leave me alone in there, okay?”

“ _Relax_. This isn’t an execution, it’s a birthday party. Shani and Alistair are going to be there, Cassandra will be there. You aren’t going to be out of place.”

“I just don’t want him to say anything about the bookcases. I hate it when people tell me how great I am, especially in front of a crowd of strangers.”

Fenris snorts. “Hawke, you are the strangest artist I’ve ever had the dubious pleasure of meeting.”

“Oh, don’t tease him, Fen.” Merrill’s feet snake back and then her head pops between the seats, leaning to rest against Carver’s taut shoulder. “Carver, it’ll be fine, okay? Just tell Felix you don’t want a big fuss made over the bookcases, and he’ll tell Dorian, and it’ll all be okay. Okay?”

“You just said the word ‘okay’ like ten times,” Carver informs her, but it does help a little. And here it is. The driveway is packed, so he parks on the street and shuts off the car. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready,” Fenris drawls. “The question is, are you?”

“If I’m not, it’s too late now,” Carver says gamely, and gets out of the car.

The front porch is lit up, now, and golden light pours out from the windows to either side of the massive oak door. Carver can appreciate that door. It’s very sturdy, definitely original to the house, with lots of detailed engraving that’s been refinished against the wear of years of bad London weather. In the center is an enormous door-knocker fit for a palace, cast in bronze with a lion’s wicked scowl keeping the ring in place. He freezes on the porch, Fen and Merrill flanking him to either side like loyal companions following their fearless leader into hell’s mouth. Or not so fearless, as it were.

“Should I knock? Or just go in?” he asks, rubbing his palms on his jeans. They’re sweating. It’s bloody freezing out here and his palms are _sweating_.

“Knock,” Merrill says, at the same time that Fenris says, “Go in.”

“Thanks, guys, you’re a big help.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake—” Fenris shoulders him aside and grabs the bronze ring, slamming it a few times against the door. Inside, faintly, are the sounds of music and conversation, and nothing else. Fenris holds his breath and slams it again.

“Were we supposed to use the side entrance?” Merrill pipes up softly.

Carver is about to suggest packing it in altogether when the door is hauled open suddenly and a very tall, very gangly silhouette appears to welcome them. “Hello! Come in, come in, we’re taking turns doing doorman duty—let me take your coats. It’s… Carver, isn’t it? Shani’s cousin?”

Fenris makes a low _meep_ sort of sound and falls back, letting Carver take point again. “That’s right. Anders, yeah?”

“That’s me,” Anders says cheerfully. He closes the door behind them, hard enough that it rattles in its frame, and takes Carver’s bomber jacket with aplomb before turning to the others. “Fenris, good to see you again.”

“And you,” Fenris murmurs between closed teeth. He seems torn between staring at the floor and at Anders’ face, and the combined effect is painful to watch.

Carver jumps to the rescue. “This is Merrill, by the way. Merrill, Anders.”

“Nice to meet you,” she beams, shaking hands. “I read your book, _The First Generation_ , it was very good!”

Anders’ lean face dissolves into softness as he smiles and takes her hand again in both of his. “Thank you so much, I always love hearing from people who’ve read it—especially when it’s so unexpected! You have to tell me what you thought.”

They walk down the hall together toward the rest of the party, talking animatedly, and Fenris clears his throat. “So. Is leaving still an option?”

“Oh, hell no. Not anymore.” Carver grins and strikes out after them, no longer quite so desperately anxious. “I wouldn’t give this evening up for the world.”

///

“…and then I said, well, who would want to go out in public in something like that? Let alone to such a _high-profile_ charity event. And what do you think? She told me—”

Felix tunes out again like he’s changing the dial on a radio transmitter, letting his eyes travel over the little gathering. It’s quite a perfect night, all around; Dorian is in his element, flitting from group to group, stopping to chat and offering refills in the same breath. He’s a perfect host, always ready with a kind word and a smile, and never without the perfect anecdote or a fresh tray of crostini or chorizo. Felix doesn’t know how he does it.

Well, strike that. He knows exactly how he does it. On the other side of the room, Cullen’s blond head appears briefly, scanning the crowd before he disappears again, likely bound for the kitchen. Dorian may be the face of the party, but Cullen is the talent—he was the one who arranged the catering, the one who made sure the house was ready on time, the one who mixed the drinks when their bartender fell through at the last minute. They make a formidable pair. Josie has begged them more than once to join her in hosting one of her infamously glitzy high society parties, but as far as he knows they have continued to decline her offer.

“…wasn’t _red_ , it was _blood orange_. Can you imagine?”

There’s a burst of laughter from the knot of people gathered around Maxwell Trevelyan, startling Felix out of his introspective funk. He forces a belated smile. Across the room, his father is bent in conversation with Thorold Tilani—as if alerted somehow, Gereon looks up from his companion and straight at him. Felix widens his eyes, jaw tight, and tips his head at Max, who hasn’t been able to take his hand off Felix’s elbow all damn night. Gereon winces slightly in apology and turns back to Thorold. Traitor.

As if by magic, Carver Hawke suddenly appears in the door, looking a bit like a startled hare. Felix detangles himself as gently as possible. “I’m going to see if Cullen needs any help in the kitchen,” he says, mostly to Max’s collar, and he slips away with a deep sigh of relief.

Carver isn’t alone—he’s flanked by the tattooed young man from the gala, the photographer, and a petite woman with huge green eyes and hands that move a mile a minute as she discusses something with Anders Thórirsson. They enter first, Anders playing host and immediately plucking two glasses of champagne off the sideboard; Fenris sidles up alongside them, pinched and nervous as a cat with a flattened tail but apparently determined to be a part of the conversation. Time to strike.

“Oh bless you, there you are,” he says, slipping in alongside Carver and taking his very muscular arm. “Help me grab some things from the kitchen, would you?”

For all his height and breadth, Carver is surprisingly biddable. He turns around again immediately and lets Felix tow him along for a bit without complaint, until they’re finally alone in the dim hallway and the noise of the party has faded to a dull jumble through the walls. “So, er,” he says finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you really need my help with something, or…?”

Felix peels away with a groan and knocks his forehead softly against the wall. “God, I’m so sorry, thank you for going along with it. Yes, I’m sure we can find something that needs doing, but I just needed to get out of there. Bloody…” Ugh. Enough. He steps back from the wall, smooths his hair and his sport coat and pastes on a smile. “Sorry. Fate has a funny sense of humor.” He turns around and is suddenly aware of their proximity. Carver is very tall, and the hallway is very narrow—he looms over Felix like a gentle giant, dressed in sleek black jeans and a wine-colored button down and wearing a befuddled expression. He clears his throat. “You may have noticed a certain obnoxious gentleman is in attendance tonight?”

“Maxwell?” Carver suggests, smiling slightly as his hand falls away. “I didn’t see him, no, but I’ll assume you used me to make your narrow escape?”

Felix instantly feels terrible. “I—yes, I suppose I did. I’m so sorry, you can go back now. I’ll just… go sit in the kitchen for a bit until Cullen kicks me out.”

“It’s not a problem,” Carver says quickly. “Shall we see if Cullen actually needs help, and proceed from there?”

“I… all right, yes, that sounds good.”

Relieved, Felix leads the way to the kitchen. As he suspected, Cullen is there, painstakingly ladling out tiny portions of bruschetta onto slices of toasted baguette. He glances up at they enter, but doesn’t break away from his task. “Oh, hello Hawke. Felix. Been pressed into service?”

“If you need us,” Felix explains. “I know Dorian sometimes forgets all the background work once his parties get underway.”

“It’s fine. I prefer to be behind the scenes.” He sets the spoon aside and dips into a little bowl full of new basil sprigs, alighting them one by one on each individual crostini. “If you’d like, the gin and tonic bowl could use a refill. Gin’s on the shelf over the silverware drawer and—oh, what am I saying, you unpacked this entire kitchen practically by yourself.”

“Rosie helped,” Felix demurs, already headed for the liquor shelf. “Give Carver something to do, will you, I stole him away to escape Maxwell’s tireless clutches.”

“I can’t believe your father invited him,” Cullen says. “Hawke, do you mind?”

“No, I’ve got it. Anything else?”

“I think the cheese platter is running low, let me just grab the new one for you…”

When Felix turns around, Carver is balancing two trays in the middle of the kitchen while Cullen flits around him like an errant hummingbird, repositioning a crostini here, adding a slice of brie there. He snorts and moves around them both to fish the tonic water from the fridge. “I’ll mix this up and be right out, Carver.”

When Carver disappears, obediently laden with food, Cullen immediately rounds on Felix. “Escaping Maxwell, really? That was your excuse?”

“It’s not an excuse, it’s a _reason_. Because it’s _real_. I didn’t make it up, Cull, he’s practically been breathing down my collar the entire evening.” He finds a clean pitcher and measures out the gin first, watching it splash into the bottom to avoid meeting Cullen’s eyes. “It was either that or spend the evening clinging to my father’s coattails like a child. I chose the less embarrassing option.”

“The handsomer option, you mean,” Cullen teases.

“Who’s the handsomer option?”

Dorian sails into the kitchen, just a little bit pink in the face and radiating good humor like a small sun. Cullen slips an arm around his waist and kisses his cheek, just to one side of his perfectly-coiffed mustache. “You are, darling, always. But specifically, at this moment, Carver Hawke.”

“Hmmmmmm,” Dorian hums, drawing it out as his eyes land on Felix, sparkling and mischievous. “Is that so.”

“You said it, Cull, not me.” Tonic water next, and then he disappears briefly into the freezer for ice, hoping the chill will dampen some of the heat rising inexplicably under his collar. “I am not a part of this conversation.”

“All right, we’ll stop bothering you,” Dorian soothes. “Here, let me take care of that. Have a moment to yourself, and I’ll see if I can’t distract the Trevelyan boy away from you. If I can get him talking with Percy he’ll be gone for the rest of the night.”

“Either that or talk over each other until neither can get a word in edgewise and they just give up,” Cullen points out dryly. He accepts a placating kiss from Dorian and pushes away from the counter. “All right, here I come. Have to play the doting boyfriend at least once before the night is over.”

“You’re _always_ doting,” Dorian assures him, voice going faint as they wend their way from the kitchen, pitcher in hand.

Empty of self-appointed tasks, Felix pours himself a gin and tonic of his own, topping it off with a sprig of mint from Cullen’s little window-box herb garden. The kitchen feels enormous, suddenly, and he regrets sending Carver off on his own with the platters. He twists a mint leaf between his fingers, letting the sharpness of it clear his head. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll come back.

///

By some trick of timing, Carver finds himself drawn into conversation with Merrill and Maevaris Tilani, and is unable to escape to the kitchen, no matter how much he’s tempted. Dorian and Cullen rejoin the party arm-in-arm, but Felix, he notices, does not. They make a very handsome couple, Dorian’s dark complexion striking against Cullen’s fair Saxon features, and they’re equally complimentary in their manner: Dorian effusive and charming, Cullen more subdued but equally friendly and easy to talk to. It’s a bit odd, seeing him here in his home, with his boyfriend, rather than on the fencing court with a sabre in his hand, but Carver is slowly getting used to it.

Fenris, meanwhile is nowhere to be seen. After several careful scans of the room, he notes that Anders is also missing. That could be promising, or it could be trouble, but it’s as good an excuse as any to drag himself away from… whatever they’re talking about now. He touches Merrill’s arm lightly at a lull in their animated discussion and leans in. “I’m going to see where Fen’s got to. Can I get either of you anything while I’m gone? Fresh drinks, a cheese refill?”

Mae smiles, red lips perfect against her gleaming white teeth. “Aren’t you charming! I’ll be all right for a little while, I think. Merrill, darling, anything?”

“Perhaps another cider, when you come back?” Merrill suggests. Carver nods acquiescence and kisses her cheek briefly before departing.

He thinks he remembers the way to the kitchen, but perhaps he’d been more distracted by Felix’s adorably frazzled demeanor than he thought, because he takes a turn and finds himself instead in a lavatory. Shrugging, he decides he might as well use it while he’s here. There are two doors, one on either side, so he makes sure both are locked before he unzips his jeans. He’s in the middle of pulling himself out of his boxers when he hears voices.

“…sure I can’t persuade you?”

“Max, you’ve been very kind. And attentive. But I…”

The voices fade again. Piss forgotten, Carver stuffs himself back into his jeans and does up the zip before creeping to the opposite door and leaning his ear against it.

“…father seems to have gotten it into his head that I am in need of a boyfriend. And I’m just not really interested in that right now.”

The voice belongs to Felix. For a moment Carver gives a mental cheer—finally he’s giving that blond bastard the boot!—and then he registers what Felix actually said. His good mood deflates more quickly than a popped balloon. Not interested. In a boyfriend. Not that Carver was actually going to _pursue_ him, but still. Bugger.

On the other side of the door, Maxwell chuckles. “I have to say, it's the first time a father has been accused of trying to set his straight son up with another man.”

Felix gives a soft laugh. “It's not that simple. But the short version is, I'm just not looking for anything right now. I'm flattered, truly. Just… timing.”

“I understand.” Max sounds utterly content about the entire thing—either he's a good actor, or he really doesn't care that he's just been given the gentlest smack-down of his life. Carver is envious of his cavalier attitude; he’s not even the one being rejected and he feels miserable. “Thanks for letting me tag along for a while, anyway. If I’ve been a bother I apologize.”

“Oh, not at all! I hope I haven't led you on...” Felix sounds genuinely concerned. Carver wrinkles his nose. Maxwell is a better man than he to be so unaffected. Or he's just a tool. That's also a distinct possibility. They're still talking, but Carver's heard enough and is starting to feel creepy. He slinks back the way he came without using the loo at all and tries to put the entire conversation out of his head.

Thankfully, Merrill is there to distract him. Maevaris has wandered off to mingle with the birthday boy, but Merrill is still happily ensconced in her corner with a plate of fruit and a fresh cup of cider—probably got tired of waiting for him. She catches his wrist as soon as he reappears in the parlor and tugs; when he leans down, she leans up on her tiptoes and whispers, “Look at Fen and Anders.”

He looks. Across the room, standing near the bookcases—now full to the brim with beautifully bound books of all shapes and sizes—Anders is leaning with his back against the wall and his face tipped down to listen to whatever Fenris is saying. Fen’s back is turned to Carver, but he slope of his body is relaxed, and his wine glass dangles from his fingertips like a sartorial afterthought. Carver grins. “What are they talking about?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s job-related. Anders said he had a potential photo gig, if Fen was interested.” Merrill tries to clap her hands, forgetting she’s holding a cup of something warm and apple-cinnamony, and slops a bit on her wrist. “Oops.” She glances around quickly and licks it off, kitten-quick. “Here, hold this.”

Carver takes her cup, bemused, and laughs when she goes ahead and claps her hands properly. “Feeling better?”

“Much. Thank you.” She sighs. “Aren’t they such a pretty couple?”

Carver swallows. Across the room, Felix and Maxwell return, a healthy few inches between them and smiling benignly as they’re drawn into Dorian and Maevaris’ conversation. Felix looks far more content than he did twenty minutes ago, with an unwanted man breathing down his neck. Very carefully, with a little more sadness than he thinks is warranted, Carver packs his budding crush into a box and closes the lid. “Yeah, they’re really cute together.”

If Merrill picks up on his tone of voice, she doesn’t mention it, bless her. “I hope tonight goes well. I did feel so bad for Fen when he told me about what happened after the Gala.” Sighing wistfully, she threads her arm through Carver’s. “Come on, you _have_ to try this camembert, it’s absolutely divine.”

She’s obviously trying to distract him from the moodiness he can feel settling around his shoulders like a cloud, but he doesn’t mind too much. He squeezes her arm with his and lets her lead him to the cheese board.


	7. 7.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix goes to Spain, and Carver is under the weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so great at summaries. Anyway, this chapter took a little longer than I wanted it to, but here we are! Trying to get more into Felix's head, and sometimes he fights me on it. One important note: early on, some people may remember that I cast Fiona as Gereon's personal assistant. That is no longer the case (I'll go back and alter that part in Chapter 2); Fiona is now an old friend of Gereon's from university; she now is a renowned archaeologist and professor at the University Royeaux in Paris, and owns property in Spain because she's filthy rich apparently. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: getting a bit nsfw, and straying into dubcon territory (not between Felix and Carver, no worries there), but nothing huge. Also a very, very brief passing reference to addiction and rehab, minor warning for emetophobes (like really really minor), and alcohol.

The country villa is tucked away in a fold in the sandy hills, opening onto a private beach and a brilliant view of the sun setting golden into the Mediterranean Sea. Felix is out of the car almost before his father puts it in park. He leaves his bags on the porch, a wide wraparound affair that leads straight into the white sand, and rolls up his trousers. The ocean is a brilliant azure spreading out infinitely toward the crystalline sky, and the late-afternoon heat is velvet on his skin; the air tastes like the sea, silt-green and fresh, as he lets the surf rush and bubble around his toes. He inhales deeply, holding it as long as he can before letting it go. He’s almost forgotten what it feels like to be able to breathe properly.

When his stomach reminds him that he hasn't anything but unsalted pretzels since they left Heathrow, he turns and forges his way through the sand to the house. On the porch, his father is standing in his shirtsleeves talking to a slim, dark-haired woman in a white sundress, a fluttering silk shawl wound around her bony shoulders. Oops. He hadn’t realized their hostess was still here. He tries to brush the sand from his trousers as best he can and he mounts the steps with a polite smile already in place. Then he sees that she is barefoot too, her jet-black hair as tousled and windblown as cornsilk, and he doesn’t feel quite so out of place. 

“You’re Felix,” she says, taking his hand immediately between both of his. Her voice is soft and lilting like a song, a robust French alto that sounds like it belongs to a good witch in a fairytale. “It’s a delight to finally make your acquaintance properly.” 

“Properly?” Felix echoes, looking from her to his father and back again. 

“Your mother and I brought you to Spain when you were barely three," Gereon volunteers, smiling faintly at whatever memory now occupies his thoughts. "We stayed in this very villa, though I doubt you remember it. This is our hostess, Fiona Chevin." 

He thinks he remembers this beach, these steps, this woman with patient eyes—or perhaps that's just the potent rush of warmth and light altering his perception of this sun-soaked place. “It’s good to meet you too,” he says to Fiona. “I’ll try and remember this time.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Now come; I’ll be leaving in the morning for Paris, but for now I am quite happy to play the host. Let me show you your rooms, and then I have a cold supper waiting in the sunroom.”

The villa is stunning, with four guest rooms apart from the master suite, a fully stocked kitchen, a dining room, library—with enough eye-catching titles to make his fingers itch—a sauna, and the sunroom, a lounge area with colorful tiled floors and a wall of windows looking out onto the beach. The room Fiona has set aside for Felix is  called the Blue Room, and it's easy to see why: from the robins-egg stucco walls to the turquoise handwoven bedspread, everything is in shades of gorgeous ocean blue. He goes immediately to the windows, throwing them open to admit the soft breeze, and goes to freshen up for dinner.

After dinner, and a few twilit hours spent chasing the tide, Felix returns for a tipple of brandy with his father in the sunroom. Fiona joins them with a glass of red, and together they while away the rest of the evening in conversation. Felix drifts in and out of the discussion, content to watch the sky turn from powder-blue to afghan velvet; his father’s crisp consonants and Fiona’s mellow lilt blend together in his ears like the tune of a half-remembered lullaby. He thinks he can remember building sandcastles here, down in his knees with his mother by the tideline, speckling everything in shells and bits of sea-bracken until it looked like the castle of a mad faerie queen.

“…must encourage him to apply. The summer session is full, alas, but I have a smaller crew for the fall semester, and not all of them are affiliated with the University Royeaux; if he is accepted he would certainly be welcome.”

Felix drifts back in to find Gereon and Fiona looking at him from the corners of their eyes and wearing matching half-smiles. He sits up a little and clears his throat. “Er, yes? Sorry, what are we talking about?”

“Fiona is leading an archeological dig in Greece later this year,” Gereon says. “I thought you might be interested in applying.”

A spike of interest spirals through him, waking him up from his lethargy. “Truly? That would be fantastic.”

“Applications for the fall session will be considered through May twelfth,” Fiona says smilingly. “I cannot guarantee you a place, of course, but from what your father tells me we would be happy to have you. I can leave my card for you in the kitchen before I leave if you’d like more information.”

“Thank you,” Felix says earnestly, already running through a list in his head of his qualifications. As much as he’s enjoying working on his current thesis, Doctor Erasthenes has been… difficult to get along with. The prospect of taking a semester off to pursue something entirely different holds a lot of appeal.

That night he sleeps soundly, and is tugged awake by the sigh of high tide lapping beneath his window. His father isn’t up yet, surprisingly, so he fumbles his way through the kitchen to make coffee and toast. On the polished marble counter is Fiona’s card, as promised, and with it a little blue enamel key and a note: _the key to the townhouse. Enjoy! F.C._ He plucks the key up and turns it over in his hands. Aside from the color, it is, for all intents and purposes, a normal house key. He slips the business card into his pocket and picks up the note to ask his father about later, and then he sees the back. There’s an address and a key code marked “security” and nothing else. Curious.

“Do you know what this is for?” he asks when Gereon stumbles downstairs half an hour later, bristly -cheeked and wrapped in a silk dressing gown that makes him look like a dandified Regency lord. Felix pushes the key across the island to him, watching with mild amusement as his father stares at it in bleary confusion. “Dad, it’s seven in the morning. That’s about three hours later than you usually wake up.”

“Jet lag,” Gereon grumbles, conveniently forgetting that they’re in the same time zone as London. “What is this, a key?”

“Excellent observational skills.”

“Hush, boy. Let me see that.” He skims the note, squinting without the help of his reading glasses. “Ah, it must be the townhouse. Fiona told me we’re free to use that as well, but I assumed we would spend most of our evenings here.” He passes the note and key back to Felix and heads for the coffeemaker. “Feel free to keep it; if you decide to spend any time out on the town of an evening it will be more convenient to stay there rather than bringing a cab back.”

Felix stares at the key. He had been intending to spend all of his evenings here, napping on the beach and drinking silly pink drinks courtesy of Fiona's liquor cabinet—after spending all his days hard at work on his thesis, of course—but Fiona’s note opens up a new host of possibilities.

When his father is slightly more awake, they agree to drive into town for brunch before Gereon goes on to meet with a colleague or two at the University of Almeria. The bistro they choose has a fantastic view of the Alcazaba Fortress, perched high above the rest of the city, whose modern white structures seem to buoy the ancient castle skyward like the bones of its unsung victims. Felix lingers a little while longer after Gereon departs, promising to pick him up in a few hours, just admiring the view. The key sits in his hand, now, warm from being handled—he eventually caves and pulls out his mobile to look up the address.

According to the map, it’s not far—a twenty-minute walk at most, on a modest residential street away from most of the touristy areas, so he leaves a healthy tip and sets out into the sunshine. The streets are full of people, though not as full as they might have been during the summer. Almeria is beautiful this time of year, balanced somewhere between tropical and temperate; Felix is just this side of too warm in jeans and a thin raglan with the sleeves pushed up above his elbows, and the walk is sedate rather than brisk, leaving him comfortably windblown when he finally arrives at the key’s address.

It’s a townhouse, tall and skinny and wedged between two other identical ones that face the cobbled street in a curving row. The façade is whitewashed, with sky-blue shutters and wrought-iron detailing—the door is azure, too, with a bronze handle and a discreet plastic security pad off to the side. He fingers the piece of paper in his pocket for the code and mounts the steps.

Inside is dark and a bit chilly, smelling of limoncello and dust. He flicks on the lights and suddenly everything is illuminated: a dark wood floor and banister winding up in a spiral to the second floor, smooth stucco walls much like those in the country villa, and cut-glass sconces that emit a discreet butter-yellow glow to match the clear golden light streaming down from the high lancet window up above the front door. To the right is a tiny living room, with an antique woven rug that splashes brightly against the minimalist walnut-and-white décor, and further down the hall a small but well-furnished kitchen and a half bath. The pantry is stocked with nonperishables and the fridge is empty but for a water pitcher and some empty ice trays, but there’s a liquor cabinet with a variety of gleaming glass bottles and enough glassware to serve a small army.

He retraces his steps and climbs the twisting staircase to the second floor—two bedrooms and a full bath, complete with a Jacuzzi tub—and then to the third, which is a single loft area with windows in front and back and a corner made up into a studio. The other corner is clearly the “master bedroom,” such as it is, with a full mattress laid on the floor and piled high with cozy blankets, and a side-table made from stacks of books. The stairs end here, but there’s another set across the room, and when he climbs them he finds a trapdoor leading to the roof. He spends a few minutes trying to figure out the latch, but when he does…

The view is stunning. To one side, the residential district slopes down to the beaches, and on the other the city builds up to Alcazabar Fortress and the vaulted sky. In the middle of the roof, sandwiched between the privacy screens, is a swimming pool, sadly only half-full and covered with tarp. Felix  immediately takes out his phone. _Hey Dad, do you think we’re allowed to use the pool at Fiona’s townhouse?_

While he waits, he peruses the rest of the roof. There’s a small garden, which is flowering profusely and has clearly been allowed to run wild, and a small pool shed with deck chairs and maintenance equipment. Taped to the back of the door is a list of upkeep requirements, and he snaps a picture of it for future reference.

 _I’m sure we are_ , comes the swift reply. _Shall I come find you for siesta? We can see about opening it up for the duration of our stay._

Felix grins and forwards him the list. _Excellent._

///

The first few days blend together in a lovely miasma of warm sand and clean, clear lungs. He works on his thesis in the mornings when he’s freshest, noodling about looking at archeology programs when he needs a break, and in the afternoons after siesta he wanders the city while his father catches up with old friends at the University. Evenings are spent at a variety of restaurants, stuffing himself on seafood and sangria until he’s nearly fit to burst. They stay at the townhouse one night in order to take an early breakfast before driving out to Cabo de Gata-Níjar Natural Park, where they spend the day clambering over rock formations, scraping their hands and knees (in Felix’s case), and getting cheerfully sunburnt (in Gereon’s case).

It’s a beautiful day, with no work, just play, and it reminds Felix of summer vacation as a child. As the sun is sinking into the sea, he finally tears himself away from the complex sandcastle he’s been working on to eat the packed supper his father brought.

“Cold lobster and caviar, dad? Really?”

“What were you expecting?” Gereon asks, affronted. “Sandwiches? Beer? Come, Felix, I have a little more class than that.”

“You’re such a ponce,” Felix teases, but he has to admit the food is delicious.

They agree to stay for the sunset. Gereon determines to climb the nearest boulder for a better view, but Felix is content to stay right where he is, sprawled on his towel with a full belly and a bottle of coconut water, which is why he hears the buzz of his phone when it goes off in their day bag. He reaches for it with a sigh, wondering what Dorian could possibly want now.

But it’s not a text, it’s a Skype message, and the username is [rylo27]. The pleasant fullness of his stomach turns abruptly unpleasant. He wants to put the phone away but he can’t resist; he opens the message.

_hey Fee! been thinking about you lately, wondered how you were doing. i’m back at MinU to finish my degree, but you’re probs still in London. are you at Calenhad, or have you finally graduated? lol it would be cool to hear from you. don’t have your new number so i’m using skype instead. hope you’re doing well. xxRylee_

He stares at the message, almost disbelieving it. He hasn’t heard from Rylee in years—the last time he was in contact it was to say a brief but heartfelt “congrats” when she graduated rehab. The last time he saw her in person they were screaming at each other. And now this. _Thinking about you_ , as if Felix doesn’t struggle to remember the good times before everything went to shit; as if he didn’t spend a year and a half desperately hating her, hating every moment he’d spent in her company. As if his last year of uni was just a daydream, and the few months of bliss they’d shared were the only reality that existed.

He tosses his phone back in the bag and climbs to his feet. His skin is crawling. He can see his father, perched up on top of a nearby rock formation, blissfully unaware of the panic tumbling through his body. Hoping it will stay that way, Felix makes a beeline for the ocean. He has a sudden, urgent need to scrub himself down.

If Gereon notices something is off when he returns, he doesn’t say anything. They drive back into town in silence, and when they swing by the townhouse to pick up their overnight things, Felix elects at the last minute to stay behind.

“I’ve been thinking of checking out the nightlife,” he says, and it’s true, but with the weight of Rylee’s message behind him the words feel different in his mouth. “I’ll probably be out late tonight, but you can go on back to the villa and we can meet up tomorrow.”

Gereon agrees without a fuss, and Felix is left alone in the empty apartment with no more excuses. He opens the message again and stares at it. She sounds like she’s doing well. It’ll have been three years since she finished rehab, and whatever she’s been doing in the meantime seems to have agreed with her. He wants to reply—to say something normal and comfortable and witty, like he doesn’t still taste the bitter sting of her rage on the back of his tongue.

He composes a few attempts before giving up and turning his phone off. If he wants to go out tonight he’s going to have to figure out what he’s wearing.

///

He finds the gay club mostly by accident. He may have caught a glimpse of it the day before when they were walking along a tangential side street, and if his feet lead him there now, along the bright-lit boulevard where people mingle in the street and pour out of bars and nightclubs to let the warm, misting rain wash away the sweat and haze, it’s through no conscious choice of his. Subconscious, perhaps. Inside it’s much like any other club in London, dark and loud and full of people. Men, mostly. The occasional group of girls, clinging together like gaggles of spray-tanned geese clutching their pink drinks and gawking. The music is a little different, but the bass thudding in his ears is familiar. He winds his way to the bar, letting himself brush into people, tasting the e-cig smoke and sickly-sweetness of marijuana as he drifts along the perimeter of the dance floor.

At first, he makes himself invisible. It’s not difficult to do—avoid eye contact, keep to the edges, linger in the shadows near the bar for easy refills without making himself a target. After the first drink he still feels out of place, too many years removed from the days he spent in uni doing this four nights a week; after the second he feels himself begin to loosen up. After the third, the moving shapes have become a soothing blur, sway and grind—the DJ is excellent, and the music has a very Spanish flair he hasn’t often encountered in London clubs that helps remove him from the old days. He orders a shot of something sticky and blue and makes his way to the dance floor.

The beat is heavy and hypnotic, throbbing through his body like the hands of a drummer, and he the drum skin. Sweat drips down his spine beneath his shirt, and he can feel the waistband of his pants sliding up above his jeans. The friction is surprisingly decadent. His hips coil in a sinuous curve, chasing that feeling; his fingers brush teasingly at his own stomach, lifting up the hem of his shirt the slightest bit, and his skin is sweat-damp and hotter than beach sand.

When he feels a pair of hands slide onto his hips, he almost thinks he’s imagining it. A phantom conjured by the rhythm pounding in his blood. Then they harden, fingers digging into the fabric to expose his skin, and he leans back into a firm grip and a warm, well-muscled body. There’s enough liquor in his system that he’s not startled—he goes boneless, lets his hips move back with more purpose, and then he’s engulfed, a warm mouth on his nape and a half-hard _something_ pressing against his arse.

It’s all terribly nostalgic. For a moment he feels like a younger version of himself—well past tipsy into pleasantly drunk, pressed against anonymous bodies, brain tumbling over itself in a giddy rush. Until he trusted someone too much and everything changed. But that’s not what he wants to think about right now, so he turns in the stranger’s grip and looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes.

He’s very tall, at least a head taller than Felix. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Felix can feel the strength of his body and smell the woodsy-citrus of his cologne, and when he tips his chin up, his nose rubs up against a strong, stubbled jaw to match the strong hands sliding up his sides.

“Hey there,” rumbles a voice, laughing, American. Anonymous. Perfect. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ve already had one,” Felix murmurs, “or three.” The heavy bass beat transforms into something else, songs sliding together like melting paint, and he lets his body slow down into a gentle sway back and forth, held captive in the warm clasp of this stranger. “Why don’t we skip the drinks?”

The man chuckles low in his throat, a delicious sound he can feel more than he can hear. “Sounds good to me.”

Felix is up against the wall in the bathroom with the man’s lips on his neck before he thinks to ask his name, and then it’s too late—he doesn’t care anymore. He only cares about the teeth at his throat, dragging tension out of him like unspooled thread, and the warm, strong hands rubbing up under his shirt with muted hunger. When they kiss, he can taste coconut and salt. Their hips grind together, sloppy, and the wall at his back is hard and unforgiving but it’s worth it for the heat coiling in his spine and his heartbeat slamming against his ribs.

It’s only been a few months since his last (disastrous) attempt at a date, but it feels like it’s been years; his hands are clumsy, his lips too quick or too slow in all the wrong places. But this guy, whoever he is, doesn’t seem to notice or mind—his cock is practically burning a hole through both their jeans. Which is the thing that breaks the spell. _This isn’t a memory. This is real._ He feels himself fading away from the heated urgency, stepping out of himself like a ghost to observe, detached, from afar. The fuzziness in his head slows him down, turning his belly sour, and his arousal banks to a simmer.

When the man reaches down and puts his hand on Felix’s crotch and squeezes, something in him rebels. The man kisses his neck, open-mouthed, smearing the smell of alcohol all over him, and abruptly Felix recoils, pressing further back into the wall. Drunk as he is, the man still notices. He pulls back just a smidge, though his terrific height still looms over Felix, inescapable.

“You okay?”

“I’m… fine,” Felix mumbles. The man’s hands are still under his shirt, lingering possessively just below his ribs. “I think I’m done.”

“Done?” he echoes, disbelieving. “Sweetheart, we’re just getting started.”

“I’ve—it’s been lovely, truly, I just… don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

The man snorts and withdraws his hands, leaving Felix cold in their absence. “Walked into the wrong club, huh? I think there’s a straight bar down the street if you’d rather have tits and a nice hot pussy.”

Abruptly, the curdle in his belly turns to a boil. He shoves his way out from under him, skin prickling, a little alarmed at how difficult it is to evade the man’s solid weight. If he were actually trying to pin Felix down, he wouldn’t have a prayer. “That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?” He melts from snappish to cajoling, pressing in again, and Felix fumbles for the handle to the stall, hands clammy with sweat.

“I’m not really keen on the anonymous thing,” he states, more calmly than he feels. “But thank you for your interest, it’s really quite flattering—”

“Yeah, okay, I get it. No big, just means I have to find someone else to spend the night with. Shame, you’re pretty.”

When he’s gone, finally, taking his sex-on-the-beach breath with him, Felix sits on the toilet seat cover and puts his head in his hands. He thought he was on board, and he’s having a hard time figuring out what changed. His body is still primed, cock firm and interested in his jeans, and his heart is racing from more than just fear. It’s not his first experience with a man, but the first in a long time—the first since his diagnosis, even though there’s no good reason for it except his own stupid fear. His fear, and Rylee, with her pride and her secrets. Alcohol blurs her face in his mind, and he finds he no longer hates her.

Still rumbling with the heat of arousal, he leaves the bathroom and then the club, walking the ten minutes or so to the townhouse to clear his head. The cool night air and the solitude, even surrounded by the lights and noise of the city, is enough to soothe his disquiet and soften his cock, but the undercurrent is still there when he hikes up to the roof and surveys the pool. The house is deserted and locked, he with the only key—his father is likely falling asleep over a book and a brandy in the villa, and there’s no one else to interrupt him. With hands that tremble just a bit, he tugs off his clothes piece by piece and leaves them piled on the tile deck.

The water is balmy when he climbs in, lapping around his body and reflecting the lights of the city back into the night sky like a little patch of earthbound stars. He lets it swallow him, shivering, letting himself find that little place of ease and comfort where his desires can safely blossom—tries not to think about how long it’s been since he’s felt that safety, even in the privacy of his own head.

“Pursue romance,” his doctor had told him at his last appointment. “You’re perfectly healthy in almost every respect; there’s no need to hold back if you’re interested in someone.”

Felix had practically scoffed in his face, and he scoffs now, palms skimming over the surface of the water as he wades a little deeper. How was he supposed to _pursue romance_ when he’s still afraid to touch himself sometimes? Outside the safety of the shower, where the hot water can beat away every trace of uncleanliness, self-pleasure is rarely satisfying. There’s always the niggle in the back of his mind, a little seed of doubt that remains even when he _knows_ , logically, there’s nothing to be afraid of. How can he be expected to have sexual or romantic relationships with that pall hanging over his head like a persistent cloud?

On impulse, he looks up. The sky is clear, with faint stars beaming down through the haze of the city’s lights and the moon hovering like a small silver almond over Alcazaba. He sinks below the water, arms circulating lazily to keep him from floating, and when he squints his eyes open against the chlorine he can see the moonlight playing across the surface of the water like a fine layer of lace, twinkling with infinite diamonds. His pulse thuds in his ears.

He surfaces in a rush, and his body feels alight like the surface of the water, prickling and aware. With slow steps he makes his way to the edge and boosts himself up—the air nips at his wet skin, but a hot beat throbs inside him, keeping the chill at bay. Moving silent in the dark, he finds a towel, pats himself cursorily, and lowers himself onto a beach chair.

When he wraps a hand around himself, his prick is hot and stiff against his palm, a bead of wetness rising at the tip. He squeezes gently, patient, milking another drop before letting his thumb trace circles on the head. His head falls back and he sighs—he waits for the discomfort, the tight knot that often forms in his belly and seize his muscles with panic, but it doesn’t come. He just feels… content. The solitude of his little darkened rooftop surrounds him like a blanket, and his palm slides easily against damp skin, building the pressure inside him without tension or fear. He thinks of nothing in particular, just _feels_. Feels the texture of his own hand, the firm bud of his nipple, the trail of hair down his belly and trimmed neatly around the base of his cock; feels his inner thighs, hot and damp, and the smoothness of his perineum. His solitude gives him courage, and he lets himself let go—gasps when he needs to, moans when he gets close. And when the edge comes, he relaxes himself deliberately and lets it take him, crying out to the starry sky until the tremors stop.

It’s only after that he thinks of Carver. Not Rylee, with her candy-red lips and pupils blown wide under the black lights, not the American stranger with his too-firm hands and his mockery, but Carver, dancing close but not too close, smiling at him in the dark, smelling like evergreen and sawdust. The image is as paralyzing as it is electrifying, and he tries to scrub it away like he scrubs away the evidence of his need, but his efforts are only partly fruitful. It’s foolish, this lingering crush—it’s highly likely that he won’t see much of Carver now that the commission is over and done with, and even if he does, what would he do? The thought of pursuing him, of actively trying to catch his eye, is… daunting, to say the least. Terrifying at worst. Besides, Carver already has one chronically ill person in his life that Felix knows of, there’s no reason to add another to the list.

Maybe, if he’s lucky, they’ll stay in touch. Become friends, the kind that see one another occasionally as they move in their mutually acquainted circles. Anything more is highly unlikely. Besides, he doesn’t even _know_ him, not really—for all he knows, Carver Hawke is a massive jerk who has only avoided detection thus far by virtue of his extremely antisocial tendencies. Then he thinks of the Gala, and Carver making sure he didn’t drink himself into a stupor, and the illusion cracks.

“Just stop,” he whispers to his towel, which is now streaked with cum and still damp from his slapdash attempt at drying off. “Stop thinking about him.” After all, he has a few more weeks to enjoy here before heading back to London. In all likelihood, by the time he gets back, Carver will have forgotten all about him. He should try and do the same.

* * *

“Hawke.”

_Tap tap tap._

“Hawke! The door is stuck again, can you let me in?”

Silence.

“ _Hawke_. I know you’re in there. Let me in, or I’ll break the door down.”

With a groan, Carver peels himself off the couch and makes his slow, stumbling way to the front door. “You push, I’ll pull,” he says through the door. His voice sounds like he’s just swallowed a whole car, but by some miracle Fenris understands him.

“I’ll count to three, and then you can go back to bed, okay?” He sounds a little bit calmer now, thankfully. “One. Two. _Three_.”

Carver shoves with his shoulder, pressing down on the doorknob, and it pops open with a wretched screech and a jerk that tugs unhappily at his headache. On the other side, Fenris takes a quick step back and watches him closely as if waiting for something. He gives a sickly grin. “Don’t worry, I haven’t thrown up in a few hours.”

“That’s incredibly comforting, thank you.” Fenris ushers him back inside and goes obediently, back to his couch like a sick dog. The bin positioned next to it is empty for the time being, thankfully, and he pushes it aside with his toe before curling up with a sigh of misery. He can hear Fenris moving about the kitchen, putting away groceries; he fades out for a bit with the soothing sound, and a few minutes later is jogged awake when Fenris puts a cup of mint tea and a plate of toast in front of him.

“Not hungry,” he croaks.

“Is the smell of dry toast making you ill?”

He thinks about it. “No.”

“Then you should try nibbling a bit. And drink the tea, it will settle your stomach.”

Carver eyes the tea where it’s steaming innocently on the coffee table. He doesn’t really feel like moving. Maybe in a minute. “I should have just taken the shot.”

“Does Bethany know you’re like this?”

“Of course not.” He rolls onto his back and closes his eyes until the ceiling stops swaying. “She feels guilty enough as it is. As if I would let anyone else in the world give up stem cells if I didn’t have to.” Marian had tested positive as well, but he’d cornered the market on that debate with the “but we’re twins” argument.

He hears Fenris pad out of the main room, and when he comes back he’s got Peaches in his arms, bundled against his chest like a massive orange sweater. He deposits her on the foot of the couch, and she makes a few delicate turns before settling against Carver’s ankle. “Tomorrow’s the last day,” Fen reminds him, surprisingly gently. “Then the symptoms will alleviate.”

“Yes, thank you Doctor Vinter, I was unaware.”

Fenris snorts. “I know you’re sick, but there’s no call for sarcasm.” He drops a piece of toast on Carver’s chest and stands. “Eat. I’m heading out soon and I want to see you eat at least half a slice before I go.”

“Where are you going?”

“ _Out_ , mother.”

“Out _where_?” Carver croaks, nibbling halfheartedly on a corner of toast. It’s cold and dry as dust. “You were just _out._ Can I have butter on this?”

“Ugh. Fine.” He swoops back into Carver’s line of vision and disappears with the toast. “If you must know, I’m meeting Mr. Thórirsson to discuss this potential job.”

“Mister who?”

Fenris reappears briefly at the end of the couch, eyebrow raised. “Blondie?”

“Oh! My god, really? You apologized for punching him, then?”

“No.” Back to the kitchen. His voice is muffled, and Carver has to strain to get the details over the sound of butter scraping on toast. “He apologized to _me_ for causing me to punch him, in fact.”

“Semantics. Apologies were made. Punches were retracted.”

“It’s not a _date_ , Hawke. It’s a business meeting. Over coffee.” Fenris returns with buttered toast, which he deposits on Carver’s chest with great aplomb. “Try not to vomit this back up while I’m gone. Although if you absolutely must, do it before I get back so I don’t have to witness it.”

“You’re such a good friend.”

“I occasionally make the attempt.”

Carver reaches for his tea. “Fen—seriously. Thank you for doing this.”

Fenris pauses, half-turned away, and shrugs one shoulder. “You would do the same for me. Have done, in fact.” He hesitates. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

“You just got the week’s groceries, I think we’re good.” He breathes in the honeyed-mint smell of the tea and a little of his headache fades away. “What’s this meeting for? He has a gig or something?”

“Yes.” Fenris drifts away again, toward the coat rack. Instead of picking up his ratty leather bomber, which he prefers for comfort, he plucks up his knee-length wool coat, the one with the collar that Merrill says makes him look ‘mysterious.’ “Something for OUT! magazine.”

Carver nearly chokes on his tea. “Seriously? Jesus fuck, Fen, that’s _huge_.”

“I would be only one small part of the project,” Fenris says, but he’s smiling as he folds the coat around his whipcord frame. His white hair sticks out the top of it like a dandelion puff, more stylish than Carver could ever hope to be with half the effort. “I’ll let you know how it goes, shall I?”

“If I haven’t died of agony while you’re gone.”

“Hmm. Doubtful.”

The door squeaks wretchedly upon opening, and then he’s gone, closing it behind him with a great deal more gentility than Carver has ever shown it. He knows that he’ll have to help Fen open it again when he gets back, regardless. He sips at his tea again and sighs. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

The slam of the door jerks him awake two hours later, and cold tea spills all over him and down the side of the couch. “Fuck!” he shouts, or tries to—it comes out more of a whisper. He sets the mug down on the coffee table with a little too much force and pushes himself upright slowly, head heavy as a brick and muggy like it’s stuffed with cotton. “Fenris, what the fuck?”

“Sorry!” comes the chipper reply, from Merrill rather than Fen. She flits to the couch while Fenris follows more sedately on her heels, shaking rain from his hair. “I’m so sorry, Carver, I’ll get you a new shirt. And a towel. Just a minute.” She’s gone again in an instant, disappearing behind the partition to his bedroom, and Carver slumps back on the couch with a groan.

“Medicine,” Fenris says shortly, dropping an antacid and two paracetamol onto the coffee table. “Take it.”

Carver reaches for the pills, feeling like an old man, and finally registers the delight on Fenris’ face: subtle, but there. His hair is wilder than usual, so he’s been tugging on it, and his cheeks are flushed with more than cold as he paces a bit in front of the windows. “Fen? How’d it go?”

“Brilliant!” Merrill exclaims, leaping out of the bedroom like a rabbit from a magician’s hat. She’s carrying three jumpers—so he can choose his favorite—and a towel to mop up the tea, which he accepts, crankily.

“I was asking Fenris,” he mutters as he peels off his tea-soaked sweatshirt and drops it to the ground in a heap.

“Merrill is correct,” Fenris says, rubbing his hands together like an evil scientist. “Hawke, I hope you’re feeling better in a few days, because I’m going to need you.”

“Wouldn’t my mother love to hear you say that.”

“Shut up, Hawke. I have a _job_ with _OUT! magazine_.” He grabs his hair again briefly before settling down. “I have to select five queer men in my circle of acquaintances and photograph them in their natural environment—it’s for a photo campaign against homophobia in the UK, specifically London.”

“Their natural environment?” Carver asks, muffled slightly as he pulls on one of the jumpers. And then, upon consideration, another on top of it. “What are we, hibernating bears?”

Fenris stops to stare at him, eyebrow raised. Carver looks down at himself—scruffy hair, three-day-old stubble, two jumpers, and his hairy toes poking out from his oversized joggers—and clears his throat.

“Yes, well… I didn’t mean metaphorically…”

Fenris waves him off. “The purpose of the campaign is to combat stereotyping against the queer community, specifically gay and bisexual men, and the photographers who are taking part have been asked to select people they know personally to model. So, Hawke. Will you do it?”

“I… yeah, sure. What do I have to do?”

Fen taps his fingertips together, green eyes hazy with thought. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps in your workshop? I considered a shoot here, with Peaches, but I didn’t want to be too intrusive. And your flat is nice, but it’s…”

Carver coughs. “If you say a pigsty, I’ll have you know I’ve been under the weather for almost a week.”

“True.” Fenris flicks a smile his way. “Regardless, I’d feel strange asking you to open your home to my lens when you’ve already opened it to _me_.”

“You’re the artist,” Carver says. He leans back against the couch, exhausted by that small effort, and props his feet on the coffee table so Merrill can put down the towel. “Thanks, Merr. Sorry I snapped at you.”

“It’s all right.” She pats his shoulder, delicate as a hummingbird. “I’ll make us more tea. Fen, you’ve not told him the rest!”

“The rest?” Carver asks, swiveling his head back to Fenris. “There’s more?”

“Anders—Mr. Thórirsson—”

“Blondie,” Carver interjects, grinning.

“Hmph. Anders is going to be writing the accompanying blurbs, which will require an interview with you and I at some point. Nothing too strenuous.”

“Not what I was talking about!” Merrill sings out from the kitchen.

“Ugh.” Fenris turns to face the window, hands digging deep into his pockets. “I may have a date. Next week.”

“A date.” Carver stares at his back, rigid as a pole except for the slight hunch of his shoulders, as if he’s prepared for an attack. “That’s fantastic, Fen, good for you.”

By increments, Fenris relaxes. “It’s just dinner. But. Yes.”

“Quite an eventful day for you all around,” Carver says, and spoils it by yawning. “Congrats—on the job, and the date.”

“Thank you, Hawke.” Fenris turns back, eyes tracking Merrill as she moves about the kitchen, humming to herself. “Have you heard from your… friend?”

“My friend?” Carver echoes, mystified.

“The fellow you keep running into, with the endless collection of scarves?”

“Felix?” Carver says, and laughs, though it’s a bit fraught. “I haven’t spoken to him in ages, not since the party at Dorian’s. The commission is over, he doesn’t need to be in contact with me anymore.”

“And this, of course, necessitates that you drop him off the face of the earth and never speak to him again.”

Carver stares at him blearily. “I’m sick. Why are you torturing me with this?”

Fenris clucks his tongue. “Because if you’re allowed to snoop in _my_ love life, I’m allowed to snoop in _yours_.” He shrugs out of his coat, finally, and drops it on the arm of a chair before sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “So?”

“There is no love life,” Carver sighs.

“Of course there is.” On cue, Merrill arrives, three mugs of tea balanced with perfect poise on a tray. “You’re talking about Felix, aren’t you?”

Carver stares at her as he accepts his mug. “How does _everyone_ know about this?”

“I have ears,” she reminds him tartly. “And Fenris tells me things.”

“I am an incurable gossip,” Fenris says without a shred of repentance. “So? What’s keeping you from texting him? Just to keep up, as friends?”

_You’re decent company off the clock, Alexius._

_Same to you. I’ll be very put out if you finish the commission and disappear into the ether, never to be heard from again._

Carver winces. “I… nothing? What would I even say?”

“Hello,” Fenris says, exaggeratedly slow. “How are things with you? Bit of a dry spell lately, are you sure you don’t have any more commissions for me? Yours, Carver.”

Merrill’s nose wrinkles up. “Oh Fenris, not the ‘yours’ bit. That’s too lovey-dovey. Carver isn’t like that.”

“I think he was taking the piss,” Carver informs her kindly. “And Fenris, absolutely not. I can’t text him that out of the blue.”

“What would you prefer? ‘I can’t stop thinking about your perfect smile and my endless sighs are driving my roommate to distraction?’” Fen bares his teeth at him. “It’s your life, Hawke, but if you’re _really_ never going to see this fellow again, what would it hurt to send a little ‘hello?’”

He has him there. “My phone is in my room.”

“Got it!” Merrill is off the couch like a shot, in and out of Carver’s room so quickly it’s almost comical. She slides the phone into his lap with an innocent smile. “Not anymore.”

“You two are such busybodies,” Carver mutters into his tea. But as much as he complains, and as much as he knows whatever ‘love life’ they envision is just another dead end, there’s a small part of him that can’t help but want to go along with it. “Fine. What is it again?”

* * *

“Felix!”

He drags himself awake, drugged by the oven-hot sun baking into him from the flawless sky, and pushes himself up onto his elbows. His father is strolling toward him across the sand, already a few shades darker against the clean white linen of his cuffed trousers and peasant shirt. In his hand is Felix’s phone. He rubs sleep and grit out of his eyes and sits up on his towel. “What is it?”

“Your phone keeps buzzing, I think you have an unanswered text.”

“Dorian?”

“Mm, no. Don’t recognize the name.” So at least it’s not Rylee again. Gereon tosses the phone to him when he’s close, but Felix’s reflexes are slow enough that it lands face-down on the towel instead. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He grabs it and presses the home button to wake up the screen.

_Carver Hawke_

Suddenly he’s very awake. He thumbs open the text. _Turns out once the holidays are over I don’t have shit to do. I don’t suppose you have any other commissions in mind?_

Unsigned. No formal greeting, no professionalism—just a friend texting a friend, casual, an opening that leaves the ball solidly in Felix’s court. He squeezes the phone tight and stares at it until the screen goes dark.

“Felix?”

He jerks in surprise, suddenly remembering his father’s presence. “Just a friend checking in. Are you swimming?” he asks quickly, squinting up at him. “Or sunning yourself?”

“I _was_ working,” his father says, “but I think I’m ready for a break. Take a stroll with me? I thought we could try looking for interesting shells to take back to London with us.”

“Yeah, all right.” Coward that he is, he leaves his phone folded up in a corner of his towel and stands to walk alongside his father. The tide is out, and the sand is firm and gently sloped to where the waves hiss against the shore.

“You put on sunscreen?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“I’m only asking for your own good,” Gereon says mildly.

“Do they look any different than last week?” Felix asks. “Or the week before that?” He spreads his arms, only a little bit exasperated. Sunscreen or no, he’s certainly quite a bit darker than when they first arrived two weeks ago, but the ink that covers his arms and torso is just as vibrant as when they left London.

“I suppose not.”

“Mae wouldn’t mind doing touchups, if they were.” His hands slap back down against his sides, swinging freely. _Don’t think about the text. Don’t._ “I’m getting the rest of the griffon filled in when we get back.”

“And then you’re done?”

“For now,” Felix replies, a little bit impishly. He has plans for his left forearm—there’s one more thing that’s been waiting for the perfect image, and after some careful thought he’s finally decided on a sword, razor-sharp and gleaming caught up among the vines. His father, caught up in every aspect of his life, defending against evil wherever it may strike. He sent the rough sketch to his mum just after the New Year, and she promised to have something ready by the time he returned from Spain. When that’s finished, every person who means the most to him will be on his body, commemorated for the rest of his life in ink and skin.

“We have another three weeks here,” his father says after a little while, pausing to scoop up half a sand dollar. “Any bucket list requirements before we head back to London?”

“Spend every single day on the beach until I turn into a leathery old man,” in Felix’s prompt reply. “What about you?”

“Considering I’ve already achieved _that_ goal,” Gereon says dryly, “I suppose not.”

Felix kicks his feet into the wet sand, leaving deep marks that will eventually fill with water when the tide rises again. He thinks about the unanswered text—and the unanswered skype message, which he will likely never look at again, coward that he is. “Rylee messaged me last week.”

Gereon stops walking. “Is that so.”

“I… haven’t replied yet.” He rubs a thumb across the _sri yantra_ inked into his right forearm just under the crook of his elbow, collapsing triangle by triangle into a jumble of geometric shapes around his wrist. His mother, creative, powerful, transforming wreckage into meaning and strength. “Do you think I should?”

“Do you want to?”

He huffs. “Not really.” He thinks of her message and wants to delete it from his phone and his memory. He shook off that part of his life a long time ago, and whatever she hopes to gain by resuscitating it is nothing he wants to be a part of. “But, you know. Politeness.”

“Good manners are not something you owe that girl,” Gereon says, almost sternly.

“She wasn’t the only one at fault.”

“Perhaps not, but who else should bear the blame for the aftermath? Forgive me for being blunt, but I’ve spent the last few years picking up the pieces of her mistakes, and I do not find myself all that keen to see you spare her so much as a ‘hello’ in passing.”

Felix glances at him. He’s staring hard at the sand dollar, glaring as if it’s personally wronged him. “So what should I do? Ignore her?”

“If that’s what you feel is best.” He lets the sand dollar fall from his hand, and it lands with the sharp edge up in the wet sand. “I can’t make the decision for you, but you already know what I’d prefer.”

Felix knows what he’d prefer, too, but hearing it from his father gives him the peace of someone else’s blessing. He jerks his head toward the open stretch of private beach. “Well we’re not taking that thing home with us. Come on, I bet there’s better shells down by the tide pools.”

Gereon looks at him from under his brows for a long, considering moment. Whatever he sees must satisfy him; he nods once and turns his bare feet toward the crumbling rock formations ahead, and Felix follows with a lighter heart.

When they return to the house an hour later, his phone is still waiting. He washes his hands of ocean grime and opens a new message.

_sadly no! trust me, when I do, you’ll be the first to know. I’m currently on holiday, but perhaps when I get back I’ll have something for you. :) you can find me on skype in the meantime: felix.a, location London._

He puts his phone away and escapes upstairs for a hot shower before dinner. Or maybe a cold one, at this rate. He’s suddenly anxious for the next three weeks to be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some info on what's up with Carver: when you're donating stem cells, two ways to do it are through sticking a massive needle into your lower back to collect bone marrow, or making medication that draws the stem cells into your blood stream (this is a really simplistic description, but for more detail check [this](http://www.bmtinfonet.org/before/beingrelateddonor) out). The medication for collecting peripheral stem cells can cause flu-like symptoms which go away after you stop taking them; the severity can vary but I kind of went hard on Carver here. Luckily he has good friends to take care of him while he's sick.
> 
> Thanks to Hannah for helping me with Fenris' last name! Also, Felix's tattoos are many and complex, and I'll get into it more next chapter.


	8. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little something different...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So tomorrow I will be posting a normal chapter (albeit a very long one haha), but I wanted to transition between Felix's time in Spain and returning to London, and this is the result: a Skype conversation between Felix and Carver (in reality, between myself and the lovely, patient, and super helpful earlgreyer!!!) to bridge the gap. I have no idea how this will look on mobile devices, but I hope it's not too annoying. I can post the transcript on my tumblr page (erebones) if anyone wants, just drop me a note in the comments. Hope you like it!
> 
> HERE IS THE LINK IN CASE THE IMAGES ARE BROKEN: http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/144316929005

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun tidbits: Carver's profile pic is a wooden carving of a dragon, and Felix's is a picture of Alfonso Herrera, who I HC as Felix's faceclaim (if a bit darker skinned). Peaches is a random photo off the internet, we'll assume she's at the vet in that one haha. The cat skeleton belongs to my friend and is really named Felix, which is what gave me the idea for Felix Jr! And for those curious, I "played" Felix, and earlgreyer (earlgreyer1 on tumblr) played Carver, although I wrote all the dialogue beforehand, and BOY was it difficult! I fucked up like three times (we both fucked up together at first, because I started writing Carver even though I'd changed my name and things to Felix), but in the end we got it! Dorian is a cameo by the darling mariejacquelyn, and "Dad" is just another random contact I had in there haha.
> 
> Confession: I don't know if TAs exist in the UK, I whipped this entire thing off just today, so apologies if I screwed up... but it's not gonna get edited in this particular chapter because screenshots XD.


	9. 9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter: some violence and a really shitty character from Fen's past make an appearance, with all the not-so-great references that brings up; also references to Malcolm's death and the emotional fallout from that.

Felix has never been to the Knight Club, but he feels comfortable there in a way he never has at other fitness clubs. This place, while classy, has “nerd” plastered all over it, from the discreet medieval décor—including Viking-style wall sconce, for god’s sake—to the hearty instrumental music playing bawdily in the weights room. He checks in at the front desk with a placid young woman with a name tag that reads _Minaeve_ in curling fountain-pen script, and she bids him wait while she pages Cullen.

“I don’t want to interrupt him if he’s teaching—” Felix begins, but she waves him off.

“He left special instructions. Don’t worry.”

He occupies himself by reading some of the pamphlets scattered around the entryway, and a few minutes later Cullen jogs around the corner, still dressed in his fencing gear, face flushed and golden curls askew. “Felix! There you are. Sorry to make you wait.”

“It’s no trouble, but I’m sure Minaeve here could have just pointed me in the right direction. I would have found my way eventually.”

“Nonsense. I can spare a few minutes to give you a quick tour.”

 _Quick_ it is not, but Felix doesn’t mind Cullen’s attention to detail. He shows him the weightlifting room, the pool, the locker rooms, and the gymnasiums before leading him to a smaller room at the end of a hallway. It’s a bit like a gym, but with more mats than empty floorspace. A small mixed group is finishing up some stretches at the behest of their instructor, a whip-thin young man with a shock of white hair that stands out against his dark skin. He’s wearing fitted black leggings and a black long-sleeved thermal, but Felix catches sight of the white tattoos at his throat and realizes who it is.

“Is that Fenris?” he asks quietly, leaning over to speak in Cullen’s ear as they watch the group complete their routine. “From the Gala?”

“The photographer, yes. That’s right, I forgot you met him.”

“Sort of. Tangentially.” He knows him only as the man he’d thought was Carver Hawke’s boyfriend, which is… a weird first impression. He has a sudden inexplicable urge to fix his hair and straighten his clothes, even though he’s only dressed for working out. _What on earth for, Alexius? So he can deliver a favorable report? Don’t be ridiculous._

“Well done, all of you,” comes Fenris’ calm, velvet-burr voice, breaking through his inner dialogue. “I’ll see you next week.”

Felix and Cullen stand aside to let the class file out, some of them passing curious looks their way, and then Fenris is walking up to them, wiping his hands on a towel. “Rutherford, hello.” Razor-sharp green eyes turn his way. “And you’re Felix, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“Fenris Vinter. I hope you don’t mind I didn’t ask you to come to this session right away. Everyone’s at a different level, so I thought it would be good to see where you’re at before throwing you into the chaos.”

Cullen claps Felix briefly on the shoulder. “I have to get back to my lesson, but stick around and I might see you after.” He disappears in a waft of sweat and gym-mat-rubber, leaving the two men alone. Discreetly, they size one another up.

“No offense,” Felix says offhand, because Fenris seems like the sort to appreciate honesty, “but I was expecting someone… bulkier.”

One corner of his mouth turns up. “Good. Defying expectation is the first rule of self-defense. If they’re not ready for you, you have the element of surprise.” He turns on his heels and moves toward the middle of the room with a twitch of his hand, a beckoning gesture. “Join me?”

Felix follows obediently, facing him on the heavy square mat a few paces apart. Fenris studies him with narrow eyes and Felix shifts under the scrutiny, awkward and heavy-limbed against his feline grace.

“Widen your stance a bit,” Fenris says softly. “Have you had any kind of self-defense training before?”

“None.”

“Any exercise regimen?”

“Er… no. I have asthma, so I never did much sport in school.”

“That’s fine. You don’t need to be a bodybuilder—clearly.” He spreads his arms, indicating his own lean frame. “You just need to learn how to manipulate physics, exploit the weight and gravity of your opponent. Obviously this is all theoretical, but you’re here for a reason. Do you have a preference as to how we go about this?”

Felix gapes a moment, caught off guard by the casual _you’re here for a reason._ He thinks briefly of a cramped lavatory stall, the throb of the bass echoing even through the floor, and shrugs it aside. “How do you mean?”

“I do private lessons, open per both our schedules, but they’ll cost more; or there’s the group session, which I run every Saturday morning around this time. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, I recommend both, as the group sessions will allow you to test your skills against a variety of opponents—gently, of course.”

“Both,” Felix decides. “I won’t be too far behind for the group session?”

“There is a variety of skill level represented,” Fenris answers diplomatically. “You won’t be out of place. Now. Let’s warm up, and I’ll show you a few basics to tide you over until we can set up regular appointments.”

Twenty minutes later, muscles pleasantly warm and his body filmed in sweat, Felix bids Fenris farewell—with promises to email him later about scheduling private lessons—and heads down the corridor to the changing rooms. He can hear a variety of lessons going on behind the closed doors, and occasionally he stops to peek through the windows to catch a glimpse: polearms in one, archery in another, and toward the end of the hall, a larger gym filled with the whap and flick of a fencing class. He pauses here, caught up in his own curiosity. He recognizes Cullen off to one side, still without his helmet, shouting orders across the court at the three pairs of duelists. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before, full of energy and slapdash grace, and he finds himself lingering a little longer to watch the bouts.

A buzzer goes off suddenly, and one of the fencers throws up their hands in defeat. “Lucky shot, Barris!” comes the call, muffled through the door, and the two opponents bow briefly to each other before peeling away to dispose of their helmets and blades. The second pair is down a few moments after, and that leaves the last: a broad giant of a man made all the broader by his opponent, a tall, slender woman with as much strength in her arm as he. Felix’s heart is in his throat, watching—the flimsy blades snap against one another like whips, bending more like branches in a gale than swords, flying so quickly he can’t even keep track of where they land. Surely they’ve struck one another many times over by now? But the buzzer hasn’t sounded, and they’re still darting back and forth like hummingbirds, daring one another to strike harder, faster, better.

Then, suddenly, the buzzer goes off like a siren shriek. Felix jumps, almost smacking his head against the glass, and inside the gym the two duelists let their ready stances fall away like autumn leaves, already reaching up to strip off their helmets. His mouth goes peculiarly dry. Of the two of them, only one draws his eye so quickly and completely—Carver Hawke, pink-cheeked, his dark hair a wild tangle and his mouth split in a cheerful grin as he bows deeply to his fencing partner—Cassandra Pentaghast, he sees now—laughing at some joke Felix is not privy to. Suddenly feeling like a voyeur, though he’s sure the windows are there for a reason, Felix turns tail and heads to the changing rooms.

There’s no one there when he arrives, so he grabs his bag from his locker and makes for the showers. Along with the open-air public showers for rinsing off, there are ample stalls lining the walls, and here he strips out of his sweaty things and lets the hot water stream over his body. His heart is still thumping embarrassingly in his chest. He ignores it in favor of the shampoo he brought, balsam and vanilla, and the refreshing scent clears his nose and his head until he feels more like himself.

The water shuts off to echoing, drippy silence. He pats himself dry and wrestles his still-damp limbs into clean pants and vest. The skinny jeans are more of a trial, dragging against his skin and getting all wet at the bottoms, but finally he’s halfway decent and flicks his way out of the stall—and straight into the arms of the person walking in.

It’s Carver, because of course it is. He jumps back immediately, nearly slipping on the wet floor, and he nearly cracks his head open but for the grace of Carver’s quick reflexes, coming to the rescue in the form of a steadying hand on his bicep. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he blurts, trying not to stare at Carver’s bare chest—a difficult endeavor, because it’s right in front of his face, broad and gleaming and lightly dusted with hair. Thank god Carver’s wearing a towel, or Felix might faint from embarrassment right there. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Carver’s mouth is obviously a few paces behind his hand, because it gapes for a moment before exclaiming, “Felix! You look, um.” He falters and releases him, stepping away to give him a little more room. “Tan.”

Felix laughs and sidles away from the perpetual puddle sitting in the middle of the floor. “Well I _was_ in Spain for a little while, you know.”

“Were you?” Carver asks, feigning ignorance—as if they hadn’t messaged one another on Skype almost every day for the past two weeks. Nothing too involved, mainly pictures of the beach and Carver’s succinct descriptions of London’s horrible weather, but it’s enough that seeing him now in person is a bit of a shock.

“I was.” He doesn’t know quite what to say next, which is too bad, because he wouldn’t mind an excuse to keep standing here, breathing in the smell of warm, sweaty man and pretending not to admire Carver’s collarbones. There’s a small bluish mark he’s interested in, just at the edge of the bone, but he can’t quite get a good enough look to tell what it is. He’s just about to play the _let me get out of your hair_ card for the sake of social graces when Carver rescues him.

“Did you have a good time, then? You seem… relaxed.”

“I feel relaxed,” Felix agrees. “It was lovely—I haven’t done so little with so much vigor in a very long time.”

“Aggressive relaxation?” Carver suggests, laughing.

“Exactly.” He breaks off awkwardly eyeballing the little blue mark long enough to realize Carver, too, is staring—not at all subtly—at his arms. “Oh, right, you haven’t seen these yet.”

“I can’t say I was expecting it,” Carver admits. “Sorry if that’s rude…”

“It’s not. Most people don’t expect it. And they’re hard to flaunt this time of year.” He lifts his arms away from his body just a little bit, pleasantly warm under Carver’s intense regard. His vest prevents Carver seeing the breastplate tattooed on his chest, but his arms are impressive enough, more ink than skin: coiling vines, thorny and smeared with organic color, offset by a cluster of deep-hued peony roses on his left shoulder and the _sri yantra_ standing bold and geometric amid the vines along his forearm. He drops his arms again, feeling the prickle of awareness at being so nakedly _seen_. “Do you have any tattoos?”

“Just this,” Carver says, gesturing to the aforementioned blue spot. Permission granted, Felix leans a little closer—surreptitiously inhaling more of his salty, masculine aroma—and examines the area more closely. “It’s a star for my grandparents, who survived the German occupation. I, uh, did it myself when I was fourteen,” he admits. “It should really be retouched—by a professional—but it’s so small it seems kind of silly.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s not the size that counts?” Felix teases, delighting in the blush that rises so easily to Carver’s cheeks. “In all seriousness—if it’s important to you, you should get it retouched. If you want I can ask Mae to do it, it’ll last for decades that way.”

“Mae…varis? Tilani? The _actress_?”

“She used to be a tattoo artist,” Felix explains. “She did all of mine in her flat, still has all her old equipment and she’s still licensed. I mean, I’m sure almost any place you went would do a good job, but I… trust her.”

“An important quality in a tattoo artist,” Carver agrees solemnly, though his eyes are twinkling. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you here—at the Knight Club, I mean. Have I just been oblivious, or is this your first time?”

“First time. I’m going to be taking self-defense—with Fenris, actually.”

“Oh, really? Well welcome, then; it’s not for everyone, but I quite like the atmosphere.”

“The drinking horn sconces, you mean? Those are my favorite.”

Carver laughs, a little self-consciously, and it echoes around the shower room. “Alistair and Shan have taken the whole ‘medieval’ thing very seriously. But hey, it keeps out the pigheaded riffraff, so I have no complaints. And I’m a bit of a geek myself, anyway.”

Felix finds this admission utterly charming. “I never would have guessed.”

“Well, don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” Carver grins, boyish and dimpled, and Felix melts a little.

“Pinky-swear I won’t.” He glances down at Carver’s towel—somehow still clinging to him, even though it’s hardly long enough to even come to his knees—and away again, flushing slightly. “I should let you get to your shower…”

“Oh, god. I’m sorry, I probably stink something awful—”

“Oh, no, it’s fine! I mean, I didn’t even notice…” _Liar_.

“Liar,” Carver says, but he’s smiling. “But at least you’re polite about it. S’pose I’ll see you around, then? If Fen is ever too mean to you, tell me and I’ll make him sleep on the—oh, damn, that analogy doesn’t work. He already sleeps on the couch.” He waves off Felix’s perplexity, sidling around him toward the showers, and Felix turns with him, backing towards the door reluctantly. “I’ll catch you later, Alexius.”

“Likewise,” he murmurs, and when Carver turns away to step into the stall, he leans in just a little and inhales, breathing in the last few whiffs of his scent before it’s all washed away.

Behind him, someone clears their throat. Felix jerks around like a misused marionette and flushes bright red when he sees Fenris standing a few feet away. One dark eyebrow lifts high. “Excuse me.”

“I… what?” _Oh, god, is he going to yell at me for smelling his roommate?_

Fenris jerks his chin. “I’d like to use the showers, unless you’re planning on standing there all day, in which case I suppose I’ll have to find some alternative.”

“Oh! God, no, sorry. My mind isn’t all here at the moment.”

“So I see,” Fenris drawls, smirking when Felix slips past him.

It’s only when he reaches his locker to collect the rest of his things that the shower starts up, and he realizes that Carver likely heard every word of that exchange. If he wasn’t blushing before, he’s red as a tomato now. He grabs his phone and flees, praying that Cullen won’t stop him on his way out; if he has to face either Carver or Fenris again so soon he might spontaneously combust.

* * *

“How do you want me?”

“Just do whatever you normally do in the studio—that’s the correct term?” Anders glances between Carver and Fenris, his pen tapping anxiously against his mouth.

Carver shrugs. “I just call it the workshop. The ’shop, y’know, with the backwards…”

“Apostrophe, got it,” Anders says, scribbling away. “Fenris is the artist here, I’ll let him work his magic. I’m just here to ask an obnoxious amount of questions and get in everyone’s way.”

“A very important part of the creative process,” Fenris murmurs, surveying his lens critically before snapping it into place. He twiddles his fingers at Carver. “Go look busy. Grab a piece of wood or something.”

Carver snorts derisively and grabs a chunk of two-by-four from the scrap pile. “Good enough?”

Anders clears his throat. “How about I ask you a few questions while Fenris gets set up? Just to get things flowing, would that be alright?”

“Sure. Fire away.” Carver abandons the two-by-four and boosts himself up on the edge of the one of the worktables, fingertips splayed against one another between his knees.

Seated precariously on a stool across the way, Anders tucks a stray bit of hair behind his ear and crosses one bony knee over the other, holding his notepad at the ready. “Is there anything you would prefer to avoid discussing, before I begin? Any, ah, safewords, so to speak, if I tread in the wrong direction?”

“Nope,” Carver says, popping the consonant between his lips like a cherry. Fenris lifts his head at the noise and glares at him, and he smiles winningly in return. “Ask me whatever you want—if you piss me off, I’ll say so.”

“Yes, he will,” Fenris mutters. He takes a few test shots, lens pointed at the far corner, and examines the results critically. Anders glances at him, chewing briefly on his lower lip, and Carver tries not to snicker out loud. This afternoon is going to be worth the trouble just for the blackmail fodder alone.

“I’ll start with the basics, then, if that’s all right. How do you identify yourself?”

“Sexually, you mean?”

“Sure. Or any other way, it’s up to you. Stream-of-consciousness.” He waves his pen briefly before alighting the tip back to the paper. Carver takes a breath.

“I identify as gay. Have done since I was sixteen, about.” A host of other words fight to pass his lips, but for some reason they refuse to come out the rest of the way.

Anders doesn’t seem irritated by his brief answer. “Do you have a specific moment in mind where you _knew_?”

“Not a moment, really? Just kind of looked around one day and realized I’d known for a while, just hadn’t seen it before.” He rubs his hands against his jeans in thought, and Anders lets him have the silence. “I think the turning point was my older sister. Marian. She was… a bit of a troublemaker, when she was younger, but the thing that started calming her down was when she was dating this girl, Leli. Suddenly she was spending a lot of time at home, and Leli invited her to Mass—which was a bit weird, because we all grew up Jewish, but Mum was just glad that Marian wasn’t disappearing for days at a time. Sorry, I’m getting off track, aren’t I?”

Anders waves him away. “It’s fine. It’s not like _all_ of this is going in the article.” He grins, charming and placating at the same time. “I won’t spill all your dirty secrets to the world, don’t worry.”

“Right.” He grabs for the loose thread of the story, waving forlornly in the head, and pulls. And everything unravels. “We all really liked Leli, even though she was Catholic, and seeing them together was what really put the pieces in my mind. It took a little while after that to fit them together, though. Because Leli moved away, and Marian was heartbroken, and she kind of fell back into her old ways. I hadn’t really had an opinion about same-sex couples before—we grew up in a small town, but Mum and Dad were always accepting of alternative lifestyles. I guess that rubbed off on us. And then seeing Mare with Leli, like it was perfectly natural, it didn’t even occur to me to ask why she was dating a girl and not a boy.”

“And how old were you at this point?” Anders interjects, so soft and unobtrusive that Carver barely registers it as an interruption.

“Thirteen. Mare was twenty. It took another two years before she was in a good place to get any kind of degree, but I always remembered how she’d changed. Leli made her more _herself_ , more like the sister I remembered from before Dad died.” There’s a rustle of paper, and Carver is pulled out of his own head. “Oh, yeah. Didn’t think to mention that. My Dad died when I was a kid. Lung cancer.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“Not much to tell,” Carver says. On the other side of the room, Fenris is still taking test shots, occasionally pointing them at Carver. He looks down at his hands instead of the camera. “I wasn’t really old enough to start asking the ‘sex’ questions at the time, so he wasn’t a part of my… realization, or whatever. But if I’d ever really ‘come out,’ he would’ve been the first.” There’s a scar on his thumb, white with age, barely visible but still evocative. He can almost feel the slice of the penknife, see the splash of red blood against the linoleum floor. “He taught me how to whittle, when I was a kid. Caught me trying to carve a little face into a stick in our kitchen—disaster. I bled everywhere, and we had to drive into town to see the doctor for stitches, all three of us piled in the van with Mum driving and Dad holding his shirt around my hand.” He huffs a laugh. “The first cut is always the worst. I’ve hurt myself a million times since, but never so bad as that.”

“Forgetting the incident with the band saw last October?” Fenris murmurs. He’s closer now, camera held like a loaded gun with the safety off, lens to the ground. “Or are we not counting ‘losing the tip of your finger’ as _bad_?”

“You lost the tip of your finger?” Anders asks, perking up.

Carver sighs and shows him, holding out his left hand; the tip of his index finger is a little flatter than the others. “It wasn’t more than a few layers of skin and I didn’t even have to go to the hospital, so no, it doesn’t count.”

“Debatable.” Fenris smirks and snaps a photo of his outstretched hand. “Go on, don’t let me interrupt you.”

Anders glances at his pad of paper, filled now with unintelligible chicken scratch to Carver’s eye. “So you said your sister is what made you start considering your sexuality.”

“Yeah. She only ever dated women, after that, and I remember a really awkward conversation that I tried my best to erase from my memory—she sat us all down at the kitchen table and told us she was a lesbian, and if that wasn’t okay with us she was going to disown us all and run away to America.” He snorts at the memory, full of spark and melodrama even past the darkened film of time. Marian could never resist being the center of attention. “Of course it was ‘okay’ with us. We were kids. We idolized her as much as we hated her.”

“‘We?’” Anders prompts.

“My twin sister and I. Bethany.” He realizes as soon as he says her name that his earlier assertion that there were no unsafe topics is now untrue. The rest of the words come out in a jumble, anxious to get them out and away and behind him. “She was the first person I told—mostly because I felt like I had to. That’s what you did when you were gay, right? You ‘came out.’ And then everyone would know, for better or worse. Well she just laughed at me, said ‘duh,’ and I never told anyone every again. Not intentionally, I mean. I never came out to my Mum, I just assumed she knew. And she did. I brought my first boyfriend home for dinner when I was in uni and she never even batted an eyelash.”

He’s afraid, at first, that Anders is going to press the Bethany issue. People always ask—they can’t help themselves. The nature/nurture debate is still clinging too strongly to the public psyche. But the moment passes, transitioning into another thread of conversation, and Carver talks contentedly about his Jewish heritage and his job as a woodworker (and why he prefers that over ‘carpenter’) until Anders runs out of questions and Fenris starts to make noises about _his_ part of the program.

Anders bids them farewell at this point, and it’s easier for Carver to relax this way. Fenris melts into the background as he often does, so familiar to Carver that he bleeds without effort into background noise; Carver puts on some music and picks up a commission to keep his hands busy, and after a while he forgets Fenris is even there.

Until the shutter clicks a little too near, and he jerks away from the worktable with a sudden curse. The piece is undamaged, but the spell is broken; he puts down his tools and wipes his hands on his smock, turning to meet the camera’s gaze with open, inquiring eyes. “Get what you need?”

_Click._

At least the flash isn’t on. Carver grunts and waves him off. “Stoppit. No close-ups.”

Fen examines the display screen. “Too late. Don’t worry, I’ll edit your pores so they’re not quite so gaping.”

“Berk.” He rubs his chin reflexively, finding it stubbled and smeared with sawdust. “Jesus, I’m starving, what time is it?”

“Half six. And to answer your question: yes. I got what I needed.” He flashes him a quick smile over the lens of his camera, a slip of white tooth against his lower lip. “Shall we grab takeaway somewhere on our way home?”

“That sounds great. Did, uh, Anders leave?”

“I believe so. I’ll email him later with the finished products.” He taps his camera and begins to disassemble it, putting the pieces carefully into his bag. “Thank you, by the way.”

“For what? Doing this? It was fairly painless.”

“For that, yes. But also for not… making things awkward. With Anders.”

Carver snorts. “I’m not Merrill, I do have _some_ tact.”

“Hmm. Debatable. Still, I appreciate your reserve. I was a little nervous.”

“Truly? You didn’t look it.”

“Good. I was working very hard to hide it.” He slings his bag over his shoulder and looks at him expectantly. “Ready?”

Carver pushes away from the worktable but doesn’t yet grab for his coat. “Are you nervous about next week?”

“The date, you mean?” Fenris shrugs, deliberately looking askance. “I’m sure it will be fine. We’ll have plenty to talk about at this point, what with the project. And you.” He smirks.

“You’re not allowed to talk about your boring roommate on your date, Fen. Okay?” He takes a breath. “Are you going to tell him about Dante?”

Fenris doesn’t flinch, exactly, but his eyes darken a shade and his hand curls into a fist around the strap of his camera bag. “On the first date? Don’t you think that’s a little premature, Hawke?”

Carver winces. “Sorry. Forget I asked.”

“No, it’s… fine. I hadn’t planned on it.” He sighs. “I’ve finally been able to shake off his specter for the first time in years, I’m not keen on resurrecting it so soon.” He smiles, a bit strained but still sincere. “Come on. We’d best pick something up for Merrill on our way, or she’ll never forgive us.”

Carver lets out a silent breath of relief as they leave the shop, collars turned against the weather. He really needs to learn to stop sticking his foot straight into his mouth. Fenris is more forgiving than he deserves.

* * *

“Are you ready to go?” Merrill asks, appearing breathless and wispy-haired in the doorway. Carver glances at her reflection in the mirror as he leans over the sink, patting his freshly-shaven chin dry.

“Yeah, I’m almost done. You look pretty, Merr.”

“Thanks.” She smooths her hands down the front of her dress, a cotton shift with a loud sunflower print and thin black lace at the neck and sleeves. It’s not a very good undercover dress, but then, it’s not a very good undercover plan. “You said Bethy is meeting us there?”

“Yep.” He steps back from the mirror and examines himself critically. A quick dab of aftershave and he’s ready to go. “Any second thoughts?”

She giggles nervously. “Bit late for that now, isn’t it?”

“At this point, I think Fen would almost be disappointed if we _didn’t_ show up.”

A sentiment which finds them in the chosen restaurant half an hour later, seated at a discreet distance from the table where Fenris and Anders are debating the merits of red wine. Or something. He can’t actually hear them from this distance, but it’s probably wine—it usually is, with Fenris.

Across the table, Merrill clears her throat to get his attention. “Are you sure this is allowed?”

“What do you mean? Of course it’s allowed. We’re adults, Merr, we can do whatever the fuck we want. Within reason.” A waitress passes by, head turned their way, and Carver smiles winningly to gloss over his foul language. _Polite company, Hawke. Do try to behave._ He doesn’t know what it says about him that his internal moral compass is narrated by Fenris, and he’s not altogether sure he wants to find out. It’s… weird.

“Carver!”

He jerks back to the present to find Merrill regarding him patiently from over the top of her menu. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I just meant, what if Fenris finds out? Won’t he be upset?”

“Wasn’t this your idea in the first place?” Carver inquires, syrupy-sweet. “I’m just the enabler, along for the ride.”

In all honesty, he isn’t that worried. Fenris is a private person, but in some respects he’s a terrible busybody. He’s fairly sure Fenris would be _disappointed_ if they didn’t at least make the effort to spy on his date. And it’s hardly spying, anyway. He doesn’t get many chances to spend quality time with his two favorite women—his mother excluded, for the moment, and the less said about Marian the better—so this evening is really a win-win.

Speaking of which, Bethany has finally arrived, looking elegant and a little flushed as she circumnavigates the dining area to avoid being seen. She’s a regular James Bond, Carver thinks admiringly, watching her glide unobtrusively around a pillar before alighting at their table with a smile and a soft shimmer of perfume.

“Sorry I’m late! Have you ordered drinks yet?”

“Just tea,” Merrill assures her. “You have time.”

The girls put their heads together to peruse the drinks menu, leaving Carver’s mind to wander. It’s a nice place, this restaurant—a little fancier than he prefers, but cozy rather than formal, with lots of warm colors and plenty of nooks and unexpected staircases that provide plenty of cover for their fit of espionage. His view of Fen’s table is sort of obscured by a particularly bushy curtain, but he can see enough to know that his friend is at ease—a feat in and of itself—and looking particularly dapper in a charcoal blazer and brick red jeans, perhaps the most color Carver has seen him wear in… ever. Carver tugs at the collar of his own shirt and surreptitiously lets slip another button.

Bethy’s toe nudges his under the table. “Saw that.”

“It’s hot in here,” Carver whinges.

“You’re always hot in here. In anywhere.” But she’s smirking at him, so he doesn’t feel compelled to do the button up again, all stiff and proper. “What are you getting?”

“A pint of something, I guess. Whatever stout’s on tap.”

“Ugh, boring. Their craft cocktails look so nice.” She bats her eyelids, which are dark and smoky and lined faintly with silver glitter, but Carver is unmoved.

“I’ll have a sip of whatever you get. Merrill?”

“They have a blush wine that looks nice,” she says, chewing her lip. She was wearing lipstick at some point during the evening, Carver thinks, but it’s already been worn off in favor of her nervous tics. Bethany notices, too, and passes her a clear lip balm to take the edge off. “Thanks.”

Their server comes and leaves again, and they bicker gently over their orders until they make up their minds. Bethany leans her chin on her hand and stares him down. “Can you see them?”

“Sort of. They’re drinking wine.”

“Of course they are,” she says, rolling her eyes. “That’s what Fenris is doing fifty percent of the time. Give me _details_. What’s Anders wearing? Fen sent me a photo of his outfit before he left but I didn’t get a good look at them as I came in.”

“Fenris sent you a selfie?” Carver blurts. Considering the very word is anathema to Fenris’ supercilious nature, he’s a little skeptical, but Bethany produces the evidence with a flourish and waves it in his face.

“I think he looks quite smart. Don’t you, Merrill?” She lifts an eyebrow at him while Merr coos over the text message. “So?”

“Uh…” Carver leans out from the table a little bit, peering around the curtain. “Blondie’s got his hair up in a bun, and he’s wearing a blue jumper and—oh, god—he’s got an earring.”

“Just the one?”

“Yeah.” Carver is a little bit envious. Not of their date, and not of the earring specifically, but of their stylish ensemble as a whole. They look good together, sleek against chic, hipster against elegance, like a picture from a magazine. Forget Carver, _they_ should be the ones posing in front of a camera. They were both clearly made for it.

“Hellooooo. Earth to Carver.” Bethany is staring at him, brows arched high. “What, are they making out or something? You’ve got to be staring a hole in their table with that frown of yours.”

“What? I’m not! I just… don’t know how they do it. The whole ‘fashion’ thing. They look like a magazine spread.”

“Oh Carver, you’re _very_ fashionable,” Merrill assures him, but he knows her too well to take her seriously. He looks at his sister, with her short, pretty hair falling in shiny waves and her off-shoulder knit dress twinkling softly in the ambient light. She’s smirking.

“You don’t have to give me that look, Bethy, I know I’m a disaster.”

“You’re not! You did quite well tonight, in fact.”

“That’s because you picked these things out for me when we bought them.” They’re nothing special, just a navy button-down and black slacks, but he’s never had an eye for color—if it weren’t for her artistic guiding influence, he would own nothing but flannel and denim.

Unfortunately for Merrill’s thirst for drama, dinner is largely uneventful. They eat and chat and pass their drinks around, to mixed reactions, and Carver is so distracted he forgets to keep an eye on Fenris’ table. Then, as they’re toying over the dessert menu, Bethany kicks his foot under the table and he yelps, withdrawing in his chair and pouting across the table at her.

“What the fuck was that for?”

Bethany doesn’t speak, just cocks her head and widens her eyes at him. He glances past her to The Table, but Anders and Fenris don’t look like they’re doing anything particularly interesting—just leaning a little close to one another over their empty plates, wine glasses half-full and their hands staying frustratingly separate on their own sides of the table. His eyes slide back to her, wrinkled with confusion, and stall to a stuttering halt; because who should be walking toward their table _right this minute_ , following the hostess to a nearby table, but Felix. Accompanying him are Dorian and Cullen, arm-in-arm and giggling into each other’s collars, and a towheaded young woman in a bright red shift dress and more freckles than Carver has ever seen on a real human being.

“It’s fate,” Beth stage-whispers, and Carver buries his face in his dessert menu as the small party passes their table.

“How did you even know it was him?”

“I’ve seen pictures!” she replies, to Merrill’s infinite amusement. “Fen took some great shots at the Gala, but I think he looks better in person.”

‘Fate,’ as Bethy puts it, has a funny sense of humor. The hostess seats Felix and the rest at a table halfway between them and Fenris, off to one side so that Carver’s view isn’t obscured, but close enough that he can almost catch wafts of their conversation—something about bees, it sounds like. He tries not to notice how good Felix looks, in a casual sport jacket and close-knit turquoise jumper, and fails. Bugger.

“I refuse to be distracted from the mission,” he says firmly, returning his nose to the menu. “I think I want the chocolate cheesecake, what about you?”

Beth and Merrill exchange knowing smiles, which irks him to no end. “Crème brûlée for me,” she says, echoed by Merrill’s choice of, “Mille-feuille,” delivered in a flawless accent. He sometimes forgets she grew up in France.

He’s barely snooping on Fen’s date anymore, preferring to enjoy the food and the company, so he doesn’t know what prompts him to look over to their table, but look he does. And he freezes. The girls are chatting about something and don’t realize right away, but when Bethy looks up at him and sees his face, she knows instantly that something is terribly wrong.

“Carv? What…” She turns in her seat and goes very still. “Carver, is that…”

“Dante. Yeah, that’s him.”

He hasn’t seen the man in years, and even then it was only the once—helping Fen move out of the apartment he shared with that scum of the earth and his sadistic girlfriend—but he recognizes him instantly. It’s hard not to. That slicked-back hair is too familiar, greying at the temples, and styled into a quiff that Carver hates on sight. And he’s _there_ , right in Fenris’ personal space, leaning like a smirking Beelzebub over their table when he should be a million miles from here drinking himself into an early grave. Carver feels his entire body go on lockdown. “What the _fuck_ is he doing here.”

“Carv.” Quick as a snake, Bethany has reached across the table and is gripping his arm like it’s a lifeline. “Don’t.”

“Don’t _what_?” He doesn't have the heart to shake her off, but it’s a struggle. His blood is boiling, and as much as he knows Fen can take care of himself, it’s hard to keep that in mind when all he can think of is the version of Fenris he’d known when they first met: thin as a shadow and forever hunched against a blow that was never going to come. 

“Don’t make a scene,” she says quietly.

Her words barely even penetrate his fury. All he can see is Fenris, hiding fear behind anger. And that just makes Carver _angrier_. He stands, barely aware of what he’s doing, eyes on the other table. Anders can obviously tell something is very wrong; he's poised at the edge of his seat, eyes narrow behind a veneer of politeness, and though he fakes a friendly smile when Dante turns to him, the rictus of his hands around the table’s edge betrays his mistrust. 

“Have you been stalking me?” Fenris asks suddenly, incredulously. His low voice cuts through the restaurant chatter like a hot knife through butter, and that’s all he needs to hear. Ignoring Bethy’s hiss and the curious eyes that follow him as he passes between the tables, he winds his way to where Riuus is having the gall—the _gall_ —to touch the bare back of Fenris’ hand.

“…only wanted to check up on you, sweetheart. It’s been so long, and you ignore all of my emails…”

“I change my email address once a month at least,” Fenris snaps, eyes flat as a snake’s. He hasn’t noticed Carver’s approach yet, but Anders has, and his polite veneer cracks away entirely. “You have yet to find the latest. Does that bother you, that I'm no longer so easy to track?”

“You make it sound so sinister, my pet. If you would just answer my messages I wouldn’t have resort to such… underhanded methods.”

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Anders says, standing up suddenly—it halts Carver in his tracks, just a few paces away from grabbing Dante by the back of his neck and shaking him like the dog he is. It also has the interesting effect of quieting the restaurant down considerably, the noise dimming in concentric ripples as people realize what’s going on.

“That’s a bit rude, isn’t it? I was just stopping to say hello to an old… friend.” Even so, Dante steps back a bit, almost into Carver’s reach, and _now_ Fenris sees him—his mouth goes flat and pinched, and Carver knows he’s in deep trouble in a multitude of areas, but he can’t help himself.

“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome,” he says, perversely satisfied when Dante whirls around so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. “Please, allow me to escort you off the premises before I’m forced to call the police.”

If it wasn’t before, the restaurant is now dead quiet. Dante bares his teeth in a parody of a smile. “No need to be so overdramatic, ah… sorry, I forgot the name. Curtis?”

“My name is irrelevant. The only relevant thing is that you’re leaving this restaurant, _now_ , and if I have to do it myself I will.”

“Really?” Dante purrs. He’s not even facing Fenris anymore, but his hand drops casually and nearly alights on the bony ridge of Fen’s shoulder under his shirt, hovering an inch away as if sensing the heat rising off his body. Carver growls. “You don’t seem the type. Big, lumbering, yes. Stupid? I doubt it. Fenris doesn’t associate with people of _inferior_ minds…”

The hand descends. His fingers, slim and pale and covered in stupid, ostentatious rings, clamps down on Fen’s shoulder like a vise.

Carver sees red. He hears nothing but his own heartbeat in his ears, sees nothing but that smug, horrible smile. It’s that smile he aims for when he pulls his fist back and lets fly—the crunch of teeth against knuckles is intensely satisfying, as is the tremendous crash of Dante being thrown over the table and onto the ground in a clatter of dinnerware. The table follows, pinning him to the ground, but Carver has jumped over it in a heartbeat and is hauling him upright again by the scruff of his neck for the express purpose of smashing his face into a pillar.

The restaurant is a tumult, but he hears none of it consciously. A hand lands briefly on his shoulder, trying to tug him away from his prize, but he slams his elbow back and throws Dante to the ground again. One of his eyes is going dark, swelling shut, but he doesn’t feel the pain—Dante must have landed a lucky shot, but now it doesn’t matter, because he’s nothing more than a crumpled, sobbing heap on the floor and Carver is drawing his foot back for another go.

“ _Hawke!_ ”

This time the grabbing hands succeed, and Carver is dragged away by force; he struggles briefly, furiously, and then he realizes it’s Fenris grabbing him on one side, swinging into view over his blurred eyes to shout at him with words he can’t really comprehend. On the other, Cullen Rutherford has his wrists pinned behind him, and by the strength of his grip Carver knows he won’t be getting free. He slumps, head pounding—he can feel a trickle of blood sliding down the outer corner of his eye, and it’s suddenly the most electric sensation in his entire body. He grabs onto that, focusing it like a ray of light through a lens, and just breathes.

* * *

He doesn’t really come back to himself until later, sitting on the open hatch of an ambulance with his head tipped back and a bloody napkin held to his leaking nose. Cullen is standing nearby, patiently answering the questions of the paramedic; he’s got a hell of a shiner, and he’s cradling an ice pack against his jaw. A few feet away Dorian and Felix are standing with their heads together, a bit rumpled and anxious, but not hurt in any way that Carver can see. Bethany and the others are nowhere to be seen, but Dante is being wheeled into another ambulance on a stretcher, bitching at the paramedics at full volume about a ‘broken leg.’ Carver snorts derisively and immediately regrets it.

“Well, little brother, can’t say I was expecting a call from Bethy tonight.” Marian steps into his line of vision, kitted out in full uniform with her hat tucked under one arm and a pad of paper in her free hand. “Least of all a call about _you_. Have we reversed roles, here? What on earth were you doing getting into fisticuffs with a worthless cunt like that?”

Carver groans and drops his head down. His entire face is throbbing, centered around his nose and a pressure aching between his eyes, and no offense to her, but Marian is the last person he wants to see right now. “Why are _you_ here?”

“I’m here because Bethany texted me as soon as you threw the first punch, and Varric made sure we were the response team sent out instead of fucking Alrik’s DSU.”

Carver snorts. “They were gonna send dogs after me?”

“The call that came in was for a ‘violent and dangerous assault of human life and public property,’ so yeah, they were going to send in the dogs.” She sighs. “Give me something here, Carver. Who was that guy, anyway? I haven’t seen you so riled up in years.”

“Dante Riuus. Look him up,” Carver growls. “Fen has a restraining order against him, he has a criminal record. Petty crime, mostly, but it’s there.”

Marian jots it down. “Was it self-defense?”

“Er…”

“Fuck’s sake! What, you just beat the tar out of him because he got a little too close to your mate?”

“ _A little too close_?” Carver echoes, loudly enough that it draws attention. A paramedic clucks at him, but he presses on, working himself back into dudgeon. “He was fucking _leaning over their table_ , he was basically confessing to _stalking_ him—”

“Hawke…”

“ _What_?” he snaps, despite the urgent throbbing in his face. Marian echoes him, but her voice falls aside, forgotten, as Fenris approaches, arms wrapped protectively around his body, nose and ears pink in the cold—but far from looking fragile or upset, he just looks angry. He comes to a stop a few paces away, and the space between them feels like isolation.

“Please just tell Marian what happened so we can all go home.”

“I _am_ telling ‘Marian’ what happened,” Carver snaps, echoing the stress on his sister’s name. “What, do you have a different version of events?”

“Yes, a version that was entirely empty of your presence until the last moment, when I realized you’d been spying on my date the entire evening!”

“Look, you guys aren’t supposed to be listening to each other’s testimonies—”

“I’m sorry, all right?” Carver interrupts, ignoring Marian’s gruff hedging. “I’m sorry I was snooping, I’m sorry I broke into your romantic evening, I’m sorry I beat the fucking tar out of your asshole ex-boyfriend—”

“Do you even _know_ why I’m angry?” Fenris inquires frostily. “Or are you just intent on scrawling everything over with your own point of view?”

“Then tell me! What is it that bothers you so much? The fact that I bashed up a bit of public property or that I was the one with the guts to do it and not you?”

“I feel like I'm scolding a recalcitrant child,” Fenris snarls, throwing up his hands. “Listen to me very carefully, Hawke: _I don’t need you to fight my battles for me._ I am more than capable of taking care of myself, and your persistent hero complex isn’t just insulting, it’s degrading. I reserve the right to throw my own punches if necessary, do you understand? _Without_ getting other people hurt in the process.” Huffing slightly, he backs away and shoves his hands decisively into his pockets. “I’m going to stay with Anders for a few days until this blows over. Do you want me to leave the key to your place?”

“Wait—you’re what? But Fenris—” He reaches out, to do what he’s not sure, but Fenris takes a half-step back away from him and that’s the final nail in the coffin of his anger.

“Do you want me. To leave. The key.”

Carver stares at his feet. He feels cold suddenly, rage bleeding away into helplessness, which is always the root of everything anyway. Fucking Samson got one thing right, at least. “No, you keep it. Don’t know who else could possibly need it.”

“Fine. I’ll text you in a few days. Have a good night, Hawke. Marian.” He nods, a quick bob of his pale head in the dark, and then he’s gone, floating out of Carver’s sightline and out of his life like a shadow.

Carver wants to drop his head into his hands, but something tells him that would be a bad idea—namely the trickle of blood making its tortuously slow, itchy way down his upper lip. Marian holds out another tissue.

“You’re leaking.”

He snatches the tissue from her hand without a word and dabs his nose. “Are we done here?”

She sighs. “I’m serving you an ASBO for all this ruckus, and for the inconvenience of dragging me out of my office on a miserable night like this. You’re lucky to get off so lightly, too, and it’s only because this Riuus fellow is an utter asshole and has the records to prove it. Do try to show up for the court date, won’t you?”

“But Mare—”

She glares at him over her notepad, and he shuts up. She jerks her head to where Cullen is now being fussed over by his boyfriend. "You gonna go apologize now for ruining their evening?"

He looks at Cullen's eye, bright red now but already turning purple at its edges, and winces. He has a vague memory of putting it there when he flailed out, resisting Cullen's attempts to corral him. "Yeah, I'd better. Thanks, Mare."

"Sure, sure. Remember, as far as the court is concerned, Officer Thrask was the first responder, yeah?" She waves away his surly thanks and returns to her squad car, leaving him with nothing to do but clean up his mess. 

When he approaches them, hands stuck awkwardly into his pockets, Dorian purses his lips and turns away. He says something to Cullen that Carver can’t quite hear and leaves, hooking an arm through Felix’s elbow as he goes. Cullen lets them go, coming to meet Carver’s hesitant steps halfway. “All right, Hawke?” So calm, and entirely unafraid of him, even though Fenris was flinching back from his outstretched hand. Somehow it’s worse than anger.

Carver’s eyes drift sideways, unable to quite meet his mirrored gaze. “Look, Cullen, I'm really sorry about… all of this.”

“It’s all right. You weren’t in your right mind.” He smiles faintly, indicating the faded, rippling scar that half-moons from his throat to the nape of his neck. A souvenir from overseas. Carver has seen it a few times during fencing class, but never this close or with such blatant permission to look. “I’ve survived worse.” 

“Still. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you…”

Cullen tilts his head, and they step a little ways away, standing like little military pieces on a rain-wet chessboard. “Forgive me if this is out of line, but your… outburst… is not entirely unfamiliar to me. Has something like this ever happened before?”

Carver remembers, very belatedly, what it is Cullen does for a living. He tries not to visibly react, but from the look on Cullen’s face, he isn’t entirely successful. “Not in a long time. I’ve already had help, _Doctor_ _Rutherford_. This was… an outlier."

“Losing a parent is a very traumatic experience,” Cullen says evenly, as if Carver hasn’t even spoken. He _hates_ that. “The repercussions can continue to have an effect for—”

“Years, decades, the rest of my fucking life. I know. I _know_.” He shakes off the anger and runs a hand through his hair. _Water off a duck’s back._ “Sorry. I’ve not had a pleasant experience with psychologists.”

“Understandable. I won’t press you on this, Carver, but if you ever need a listening ear I’m more than willing. Not as a psychologist, but as a friend.” He slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, flipping through it for a business card. On the back he scrawls something, and passes it over. “My personal mobile number, if you’re so inclined.”

Carver takes it, turning it over between his fingers. “Isn’t that the first thing you’re _not_ supposed to do? Get personally involved with patients?”

“But you’re not my patient,” Cullen says. He smiles faintly and claps him on the shoulder. “Will I see you at fencing this weekend?”

“I—yeah, yeah. Thank you. For this.” He puts the card in his own wallet, and even if he’s not sure he’ll actually use it, it’s nice to have the option.

“Any time.”

With Cullen gone, off to chivy Dorian and the befreckled girl down the darkened pavement, he looks for Bethy and finds her leaning against the hood of his car, wrapped in someone else's leather jacket and talking to Felix in low tones. He hesitates, not wanting to interrupt, but she sees him waffling on the pavement and beckons him with a fleeting, red-lipped smile. 

“All done?”

“Guess so, yeah. Mare’s going to pull some strings.” He glances at Felix, but there’s no visible reaction to his flagrant disregard for due process, so he decides not to worry too much.  

“You mean she’ll bribe Varric and _Varric_ will pull strings,” Bethy says. She burrows a little deeper in the borrowed jacket. “I think I’m just going to hop on the tube and ride home, there’s no sense in you driving me when it’s so out of your way.”

“You didn’t have to stay…” 

“That’s okay. Felix kept me company.” She smirks. “And I couldn’t just leave you, idiot. You’ve sat in hospital waiting rooms often enough that I can stand to wait while you get interrogated by the police.”

“Oh my god,” Carver sighs, “I’m never going to live this down.” 

“Probably not.” She straights and brushes off her skirt, fingers lingering around the edge of the overlarge jacket. “Here, Felix, thanks for letting me borrow it.”

“It’s no trouble at all—please, keep it, especially if you’re walking to the station.” He brushes off her attempts to return it, smiling at her like they’re old friends. Out of nowhere, a spike of jealousy strikes—for who, he’s not quite sure. Bethy’s familiarity with someone he finds attractive? Or Felix’s familiarity with his twin sister, who he only just met this evening? Still muddled with emotion and adrenaline, he wonders if perhaps it’s a little bit of both.

“I’ll walk you, Bethy,” he says, a bit bluntly. Too late to tone it down. She gives him an arch look.

“All right, if you want. Let me say goodbye to Mare. Goodness knows I won’t be seeing her again for a month, the way things go with her.” She reaches out for Felix’s hand and squeezes, briefly. “It was good to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see more of each other.”

Another uncomfortable flash of heat, rising up along his back like the bristle of an irritated dog. Carver shakes his head a bit to tamp it down and watches Bethy go, the bomber jacket wrapped around her slender frame like a blanket and her head ducked against the wet drizzle as she makes her way to the police cruiser. He clears his throat.

“So you met my sister.”

“So I did.” He half-smiles and looks down at his feet, scuffing his toe against the wet pavement. “She’s not very much like you, is she?”

He supposes he deserved that. “No. She’s a lot nicer. And more tactful.” _And less violent_.

“That’s not… really what I meant…”

“It was. But that’s okay, I agree with you. She’s always been my better half.” He takes a deep breath. “Felix, I’m really sorry about tonight. I ruined everyone’s evening, including yours, and it was never my intent—”

Felix puts a hand on his arm, effectively cutting off all speech. “Carver. It’s fine. Bethany was… explaining things to me.” He drops his hand, and Carver feels the absence of it keenly, suddenly colder without his touch. “I admit I was a little freaked out at first, but knowing that you don’t just… explode with rage for no apparent reason…”

“I don’t. I promise.” He’s suddenly anxious to explain himself, but this isn’t really the time or place to have that conversation. _So much for being a gentle giant._

“I believe you. _He_ clearly deserved it, anyway.” He jerks his thumb toward the ambulance, which is only just now getting underway. “Are you all right? You have a lot of blood on your shirt.”

Carver looks down, belatedly remembering how much he bled on himself. Gross. “I’ll be fine. Sleep and paracetamol cure a multitude of ills. What about you? And… your date?”

“My… oh, Sera? She’s just dandy. I’m sure she found the entire thing amusing, she’s… odd like that.” He huffs and shakes his head. “I’m not sure why Dorian invited her, she hates this sort of thing—dressing up, going out, et cetera. She would have preferred a club, I think.”

“Celebrating something?”

“Er, yes. My birthday, a few days early.”

“Oh, god, now I really feel terrible!”

“Don’t!” Felix assured him, laughing. “In all honesty I would have preferred a club myself, but convincing Cullen to set foot in one is like trying to give a cat a bath. Not that I’m very familiar with the scene anymore, anyway—it’s been a while since college. Longer than I like to admit.”

“I would recommend something, but I’m afraid it’s been awhile for me, too. And the only clubs I’m familiar with are gay clubs, anyway.”

Felix raises a brow. “And that’s a problem because…?”

“Uh.” Wrong-footed, Carver scrambles for an explanation. “I mean, I know Dorian and Cullen are together, obviously, but I assumed you wouldn’t have an interest in the gay scene.”

Felix looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “You know what they say about assumptions…”

Oh. _Oh_. “Er—sorry. I, ah, I never figured you for a bender. No offense.” Fantastic. Way to be insulting, idiot _. Shut up, Fenris, get out of my head._

Felix half-smiles, oblivious to his internal battle. “I swing both ways, on occasion.”

“On occasion?”

“I’m… not much for relationships, these days,” Felix says carefully, like he’s navigating a minefield barefoot. “Focusing on school, you know. The gender bit isn’t really a part of it.”

Carver’s mouth is very dry. “Well, if you change your mind…” _I can’t. I can’t._ He wants to, desperately, but he doesn’t think he could have invented worse timing if he’d tried—split lip, face and knuckles aching, surrounded by the wreckage of an utterly disastrous evening. He can’t. He takes a breath. “I’ve heard good things about match.com.”

Felix snorts—there’s something in his face that Carver can’t quite make out. Amusement? Possibly.  Disappointment? _Wishful_ _thinking_. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He glances over his shoulder. “I think your sister is ready to go, so I won’t keep you. Carver—don’t beat yourself up, all right?” He smiles, eyes traveling over what is surely going to be a fantastic black eye tomorrow. “That’s already been done for you.”

“Right. Uh, thanks.” He resists the urge to touch his face and hopes he doesn’t look too awful. “Have a good night.”

When he’s alone again, he turns to look for Bethy. She’s standing a little ways apart, just watching; when he holds a hand out, she comes and loops their arms together, leaning hard against him. He squeezes her gently. “Ready to go?”

“Mm-hmm.”

They walk in silence for a little while, bathed in the cool, wet air as they circumnavigate Trafalgar Square, avoiding the clumps of tourists clinging doggedly to their itineraries even at this hour. It’s only when they reach Charing Cross that he works up his nerve and says, “Nice of Felix to give you his coat.”

“Yes, it was,” she agrees. They navigate the steps down to the platform arm-in-arm and pause there, letting the negligible evening traffic flow around them like a stodgy, overworked river. “He’s a lovely man. Very considerate.”

He clenches his jaw to keep from scowling. “Yeah, I guess.”

Bethany abruptly scoffs and steps away, shrugging out of Felix’s bomber jacket. “You prick. You’re not allowed to get all grouchy when you don’t even have the stones to ask him out.” She shoves the coat at him. “There. You’re welcome.”

“I... what?”

“A reason to see him again, since you apparently need one.” She sighs. “Marian’s probably not going to say anything to Mum, shall I deflect until you’re ready to tell her?”

He’s not sure which is worse—going home to tell her now, or having to hear her ranting long-distance when she calls him later. Keeping it from her entirely isn’t an option, but the thought of facing his mum’s disappointment right now is untenable. “I’ll call her tomorrow. Beth... I’m really sorry.”

She softens and takes his hands in hers, so small and delicate against his rough paws. “It’s not me you need to apologize to.”

“I know. But I already tried—he didn’t want to hear it.”

“Give him time. You know how he is, Carv.” She swings up on her tiptoes and kisses his bruised cheek. “Go to bed. It’s been quite an evening. Things will look better in the morning.” 

He doesn’t know about that, but he has little choice. He kisses her cheek and walks back to his car, and that’s when he remembers he’s still got Felix’s coat draped over one arm. It’s dark and deserted here, not even the streetlights near enough to illuminate his face, and yet he feels weirdly exposed as he lifts the fabric to his nose and breathes in. It smells a bit like Bethy’s perfume, sweet and strawberry-cream, but under that is damp leather, evergreen, vanilla… He shivers and throws the garment over his shoulder into the back. Then, feeling like a berk, he retrieves it and folds it carefully, resting it in a neat packet on the passenger seat. 

_Hey Felix, I’ve got your jacket. Let me know the best way to get it back to you._

Then, because he’s a coward, he shuts it off for the drive home. When he’s had a shower and some paracetamol feels a little more like himself, he climbs into bed and turns it back on to find a reply waiting.

_it’s not a problem :) I don’t wear it very often!_

Well that’s open-ended. Is that an invitation to... keep it indefinitely? He glances over to the well-worn shape of it, hanging off the hook beside yesterday’s towel and a flannel shirt. It probably won’t fit—he’s got a bit more muscle and bulk than Felix, even if they’re around the same height. He’ll bring it to the Knight Club and pass it off to Cullen this weekend. No sense in hanging onto something he can’t use. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the restaurant exists, it's near the portraits gallery, but I can't remember the name. :P I also did a liiiittle bit of research on UK police stuff but I'm sure I got some stuff wrong, so if it's painful just let me know. Marian is a Detective Sergeant for the Metropolitan Police, and Varric is the Detective Inspector of her unit; DSUs are basically K9 units. I struggled for a long time to figure out Marian's role in this 'verse, and how it would translate to the game's canon, and in the end I settled for this. Hope it's... somewhat believable. :P
> 
> thanks to mariejacquelyn for finding Fenris' last name, and to earlgreyer for being so helpful, as always, in ironing out the plot kinks and reassuring me that my writing makes some kind of sense :D


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carver deals with the fallout of the incident at the restaurant and Felix falls a little harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a wee bit late, real life stuff came up! I'm really pleased with this chapter, hope you all agree. Thanks as always to earlgreyer for her fantastic Warnings for this chapter: references to parent death. Also, as always, cancer/HIV mentions; probably won't be warning for that anymore, since both play a fairly central role to this story.

Carver doesn’t go to fencing. He wakes up with his alarm and spends half an hour staring at the ceiling, wishing—for once—that it wasn’t a Saturday. The past few days he could bury himself in his work like usual, drive home in a stupor, and fall into bed without sparing more than a passing thought for the lonely couch, or the empty spaces in the cluster of his shoes by the front door.

The ASBO is barely a flicker in the film reel of his life. He writes a check for the fine, signs a bit of paper that says he won’t set foot in the restaurant for a year, and goes back to the ’shop like it’s just another day. Thom and Stroud are just as taciturn and dark-humored as ever, and they give him his space, working around him like he’s a ghost. It suits him just fine. The aftermath of his rages has always been quiet and solitude, and the way the old patterns resurrect themselves is comforting.

He calls his mother several times that week, for her more than for him. She wants to “check up on him,” she says. Carver is utterly calm and toneless when he speaks to her—he feels hollow, like all emotion has been scooped out of him, and that is part of the pattern, too. It will trickle back in, slowly, controlled. He is in control.

He stares at the ceiling and he doesn’t get out of bed. His phone goes off on his nightstand, a text from Cass, but he doesn’t answer it. Instead he gets into the shower, mostly by rote, and when he gets out he dresses and makes a cup of coffee, every muscle moving through memory alone. The keys to his car are in one of Bethy’s sloppy ceramic bowls near the front door; he scoops them up on his way out, slamming the door shut with his shoulder. He really needs to email Stannard about fixing it.

He doesn’t realize he’s underdressed until he starts shivering, sitting at a red light five minutes from his apartment. The engine isn’t warm enough yet and his fingers are like claws around the steering wheel. In the passenger seat, Felix’s jacket sits, folded up neatly like a gift that wasn’t meant for him. He’s cold.

Fuck it.

As the light turns green, he grabs it off the seat and fights his way into it. It’s well-worn and well-loved, a little roomier in the shoulders than Carver expected given Felix’s slight frame. Maybe it’s a hand-me-down, or a thrift store find. As he drives, mindless, he explores it—the buttery placket with its stiff, original zipper; the pockets full of random crap like ticket stubs and lozenge wrappers and a pin shaped like a fox, and isn’t _that_ a strange thought: prim and proper Felix Alexius, a _hoarder_. It’s a little short in the sleeve, but overall it fits rather well. It’s something to tuck his chin into, anyway, as he merges onto the M4 bound west.

There isn’t really a grave for Malcolm Hawke, but there’s a little place to the western side of the island, once a scrap of farmland held in the sprawling Amell clutches, now sold off a handful of times and forgotten: a hilly knoll overlooking the Atlantic ocean, buffeted to a treeless slope by the wind, the grasses trimmed and strewn with rocks beneath the weight of inclement weather. It was there, more than thirty years ago, that Malcolm stole his childhood sweetheart away from a family function and made his proposal. _Run away with me, and we will be happy and in love with no one to tell us no._ Leandra Amell accepted, and on that day, though no rings would change their hands until many months later, after the birth of Marian, she became Leandra Hawke, a name Carver reckons she will bear for the rest of her life. No remarrying for her, no return to the family name that once spoke of legacy and greatness. She chose a humbler name, a humbler future, and this place—never quiet with the crash of waves against the cliffs, never tamed or gentled—is where it all began.

It was where they took the ashes, when they first came back to England. It hadn’t been raining then, like it is now—by some miracle the day had been clear, a cloudless, austere blue that seemed to match the crystalline sharpness Carver felt through every brittle bone in his young body. They had buried a small canister in the ground, as deep as Leandra could make it into the hard earth, and the rest they scattered to the four winds. To Carver it seemed that rather than flying free, his father’s spirit had dusted the ground in a fine pale powder, sinking into the ground and taking root.

He remembers wanting to build a tree, but he had kept the idea to himself. He regrets it now—even if the wind had torn its fragile branches to shreds, at least there would be a marker, some kind of reminder that _this_ is where Malcolm Hawke had found his final resting place. But there’s no marker, not even a proper sign directing him to the right patch of bluff. He’s been here before, a few more times since the first, but memory is a tricky thing; as he wanders, wheels humming along the wet road, the clouds overhead grow darker and the rain pelting down against the hood of the car grows more insistent. He passes a sign for the Bristol exit, and knows he’s gone too far north. With a groan, he flicks his blinker on and merges over without looking over his shoulder.

The entire car is slammed forward without warning, taking Carver with it. The seatbelt cuts into his chest and he gasps, slamming reflexively on the brake—there’s a horrible crunching sound, and suddenly he’s hanging in midair, watching through dazed eyes as the pavement passes by in a slow skid through the passenger window. The world stops.

He can’t hear anything, at first, or feel much of anything but the racing of his heart. Little flakes of glass patter against his face and down his collar, and there’s a horrible ache suffusing the back of his neck and down his spine that eclipses everything else. Then shock overwhelms him, his body pumping itself full of adrenaline, and he fumbles for the seatbelt clasp. He catches himself on the dashboard and his back screams. He doesn’t, thought—instead he bites his lip hard enough to wake himself up a little, and in spite of the protests of his body, pushes himself up, lashed by wind and rain as he stands through the driver’s side window and looks behind him.

There’s a lorry a short ways away, sitting at an angle across the lane. The pavement between him and it is littered with shattered glass and black skid marks. His car—god, no, _Bethy’s_ car, what is he going to tell her?—is on its side in the middle of the highway, back end crushed like so much tinfoil and one tyre wrenched heartily out of its socket. He sways a bit and puts a hand to his ringing head, and his fingers come away bloody.

“Mate, are you all right? Jesus Christ, what a hit.” The driver of the lorry, looking none the worse for wear and concerned rather than irritated, is jogging his way, and another passerby had already pulled over and appears to be on their phone. He looks back around and flinches back from the sudden arrival of the lorry driver, barrel-chested and generously bearded and far larger than life to his addled wits.

“I’m—fine, I’m fine,” he stammers, slowly making his way out of the wreckage of the car while the gentle giant hovers anxiously. In the distance there are already sirens. Two encounters with the paramedics in less than a week—he definitely can’t tell his mother about this.

///

“You’re clear to be released,” the nurse tells him a few agonizingly slow hours later. He sits on the edge of the hospital bed, his minor cuts disinfected and taped over, his head throbbing gently with what they tell him is a minor concussion. “But I’m afraid you’re in no fit state to drive, even if you did have a car. Is there someone you can call? An emergency contact?”

Not Mum. Not Bethy. Not… Fenris. He turns his phone over in his hand, recently returned to him and just as blank of messages as it has been for the past few days. When he opens his texts, the third most recent after his family is Felix. What a joke.

“Mr. Hawke? Is there anyone I can call for you?”

“I’ll call,” Carver snaps, opening a new text message. He thinks of Cullen’s business card sitting in the pocket of his coat— _his_ coat, not Felix’s borrowed (stolen?) jacket—and sighs. “Thanks. Sorry.”

_Hey Felix, hope I’m not out of line here but I could really use Cullen Rutherford’s personal number. He gave it to me the other night but I don’t have it on me right now. Thanks. –Carver_

He fully expects to sit there in awkward silence for a few minutes, waiting for the nurse to get bored of him thumbing through his contacts and wander off, but the reply comes almost right away. _Sure, I’ll send it as an attachment. Everything all right?_

Everything’s horrible, but he can’t say that in a text message. _I’ve been better._

The attachment comes in on the heels of his reply, but before he can open it his phone is ringing in his palm: Felix. He lifts it gingerly to his ear. “Hello?”

“Carver?” Felix asks, a bit muffled.

“Uh, yeah. It’s me.”

“Sorry for calling, I just—wanted to check in. What’s going on?”

“I, um, I just need a ride. My car’s got a few… issues.” The nurse snorts audibly, and he sends her a brief glare around the crook of his arm. “Do you think he’d be available to pick me up?”

“I’m fairly sure. His Saturdays tend to be free.” Felix hesitates, and through the connection Carver can hear his breathing, a weirdly intimate sound that tickles at the nape of his neck. “Carver, are you sure you’re all right? You sound a bit funny.”

“I’m okay,” Carver says, not entirely a lie. He knows what it must sound like, asking for the contact info of a professional psychiatrist, but he doesn’t really feel like getting into the details. “Just been a rough morning. Thanks for sending his number, I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Felix says distantly. He’s been relegated from _friendly concern_ to _unattached acquaintance_ , and he knows it. Carver would feel bad, except his head is throbbing too much to bother. “Talk to you later.”

“Probably,” Carver says, nonsensically, and hangs up. _I’m channeling Cole now, I guess._ Painfully aware of the nurse’s razor-sharp gaze on him, he opens the attachment and selects Cullen’s mobile number. The ringing is terrifically loud to his sensitive ear, and he holds it a little ways away until it picks up with a click and a _hello, Cullen here._ “Hello, Cullen, it’s... Carver.”

“Hawke.” He sounds a little surprised, but the burr of his voice is difficult to interpret over the phone. “You didn’t come to fencing.” 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t really feeling up to it.” Wasn’t feeling the rigor, the mental clarity. The chance of running into Fenris—unbearable—or Felix, which would mean giving up the jacket. With the well-loved leather draped over his shoulders, cradling him against the painfully familiar, astringent atmosphere, the thought of having to give it up is untenable.

“Is everything all right?” Cullen asks. “Felix texted just a moment ago and said you might be in some trouble?”

“Not... trouble. Really. I just, um, need a ride. If that’s not too inconvenient. I would call Mum but I don’t want to worry her.”

“Where are you?” 

“Bristol Royal Hospital.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then a crackling breath. “And your car?”

“On its way to the scrap heap, I think.” 

“Yeah, all right, I’m on my way. It’ll take a bit, though, are you all right to be discharged?”

“I think so. The nurse doesn’t sound like she wants to let me go without a ride, though.” He glances over at her, and she sniffs and jots something down on her clipboard. Wonderful.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Two hours, give or take. You sit tight, okay? Will you do that for me?”

“Sure. I’ll be here.” As uncomfortable as he is sitting in a hospital, the idea of wandering around town doesn’t really appeal. “Thank you for this. I—I have money, I can pay your gas or—”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on me, Hawke. Anything you need.”

The wait seems interminable, even though he spends a few minutes responding to Felix’s persistent texts—yes I’m fine, Cullen is coming to get me, minor car accident, no need to worry. The concern is… refreshing. He’s so rarely fussed over these days. _I don’t want to seem like I’m looking for attention_ , he says when Felix complains that he’s not being forthcoming enough. The answer— _You don’t seem that way at all. I’m already paying attention, aren’t I?_ —sits oddly in his chest, and he puts his phone away, wondering what he’s done to earn Felix’s good opinion.

 _He saw you beat a man to a pulp and doesn’t think less of you_ , Fen’s voice says in his head. _Don’t let go of this one, Hawke._

Time sort of blurs as he sits in the waiting area, wishing for something stronger than paracetamol to soothe his aching head, and when Cullen walks in, cheeks flushed with cold and his saffron curls askew from the wind, it feels more like five minutes than two hours. Cullen scans the room briefly, economically—like a solider—and heads Carver’s way, hands swinging idly at his sides as he approaches.

“All right, Hawke?” he says, eyes flicking over him, cataloguing the damage: fading black eye from the fight at the restaurant now overlaid with light scabbing, a split lower lip, and the tape over his opposite eyebrow where the falling window glass had caught. All superficial, but masking a deeper hurt that’s proving harder and harder to hide.

“Not so bad. Whiplash. Minor concussion, they want me to check in at Redcliffe tomorrow and again in a week to make sure it’s nothing more serious.” He waves his discharge papers, the smallest packet he’s ever had to carry from a hospital, and folds them up to put in his pocket. Cullen’s eyes fall to the jacket.

“Is that… Felix’s?”

“Er. Yeah. He let Bethy borrow it the other night, and I, uh, I’ve been meaning to return it.” The excuse sounds terribly weak, but Cullen doesn’t press the issue—just hoists him out of his seat with a hand under his elbow and guides him toward the door. He doesn’t speak again until they’re in the car, settled and buckled, and Carver trying to pretend the window glass doesn’t make him nervous.

Cullen clears his throat. “Where were you headed, if I may ask? Anywhere in particular?”

Carver follows the seam on his jeans with his thumb. “Going to see my dad. Well, where we scattered his ashes. Nothing much there now. But I couldn’t remember exactly where it was, and then I was stupid and didn’t check my blind spot before switching lanes.”

“It could happen to anyone,” Cullen says kindly—far more kindly than he deserves. “Shall we try and find it, then, before heading back to London?”

 _That_ was not what Carver had been expecting. “I… are you sure? I’ve inconvenienced you more than enough for one day.”

“It’s not inconvenient. Been awhile since I’ve been to Bristol.” He winks. “And I like to drive. Relaxes me.”

“Me, too,” Carver says, and sighs. “God. _Fuck_. What am I going to tell Mum?”

“The truth?” Cullen suggests quietly. “One step at a time, Hawke. Where do you want to go?”

“I’d… really like to go see Dad. I think I know where to go, now. Or I could text Mum, I guess, I don’t necessarily have to tell her I totaled Bethy’s car right off the bat.” He’s already got his phone in his hand, but he doesn’t open up a new message until Cullen makes a small, neutral noise of acknowledgement. He still feels terrible for making him drive all this way, even though he’d said _anything you need_ , like he was swearing some sort of oath of fealty instead of just saying _I’m here._ It’s been awhile since anyone has said that. It’s implied, of course, with his mum and Beth, and Fenris and Merrill, or at least it used to be. But hearing it out loud, in some form, is different.

He texts his mum without incident, and soon they’re turning onto a dirt track that carves its way through the muted wintry grass, limned in frost and sea-salt from the churning wind. Carver recognizes it, now, and when they arrive at the base of the hill he climbs stiffly out of the car and leaves Cullen behind.

There’s no trace of the little box they buried, but Carver stands at the crest of the hill anyway, hands in his pocket and chin tucked down into the collar of Felix’s jacket. He sort of wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what. His phone is a heavy weight in his pocket: nothing new from Felix, and nothing at all from Fenris, not in the last few days. He’s been waiting for Fen to text first, trying to give him the space he needs, but he knows if he stands here much longer, cold and lonely, he’s going to lose his nerve entirely. So instead, he breaks.

_Fenris. Tell me how to fix this._

The answer comes sooner than he expected—but then, it is past noon, which means Fen is done at the Knight Club and is probably on his way home. Wherever that is. _there’s nothing to forgive. I just needed some time._

_time from me?_

_from everything_

_I know I frightened you_ , Carver types with shaking fingers. _I’m sorry._

He can practically hear the longsuffering sigh accompanying the persistent buzz of his phone. Incoming call. “Fen?”

“Carver,” is the patient reply. “You’re forgiven.”

“But I—”

“Why didn’t you come to fencing today? Cullen said he was expecting you.”

“I know. I told him I would come, but I didn’t really feel like it, so I went for a drive instead.”

There’s silence for a bit, punctuated by the whistle of the wind through the grass, and then Fenris says, “Hawke, where are you?”

“Er… Bristol.”

“ _Bristol_? You didn’t feel like coming to fencing, but you felt like driving to bloody Bristol?”

“I felt like visiting Dad. It’s been a while. And then I… might have totaled the car.”

“Hawke…”

“I’m all right. And Cullen’s here, actually, he’s going to get me back to London.” He shuffles his feet, kicking at the frosty grass. “Don’t tell Bethy or Mum, okay? They have enough to worry about as it is.”

“Enough to worry about without you going off the rails, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

A sigh crackles down the line. “I was expecting more of a fight on that one. You sure you’re all right, Hawke?”

“I’m fine. I will be.” He chews his lower lip briefly. “How is… Anders?”

“Fine. He works a great deal, I haven’t actually seen much of him. We have very different schedules.” Does Fenris sound disappointed by this? It’s hard enough to tell with him in person, let alone over the phone. “In all seriousness, Hawke, I do forgive you. The spying was a bit… unexpected, but if Dante had never interfered it would have been nothing more than a harmless prank. And I don’t blame you for springing to my defense. It was annoying, but it was so very _you_.”

“You don’t think I have a hero complex, then?”

“Oh, I do. Sorry, Hawke, but it’s true. It’s not necessarily a _bad_ thing, but I don’t think you can ignore it.” Fenris’ voice goes gentle and quiet. “I’m not really the one you should be talking to about this, but take it from someone who knows: you can’t save the world, Hawke. I’m sorry. Sometimes things will happen beyond your control, and you just have to let them.”

“Like Bethy, you mean.” His free hand is clenched around the open zip of the jacket, wet with rain and red around the knuckles from the cold. “Or Dad.”

“Hawke…”

“I know, I know. You’re not a shrink.”

“No, but I am your friend. And when I tell you that I think you should talk to Cullen about this, I’m being completely serious. Listen—I have never seen you like that before. I’ve seen you _frustrated_ , and _upset_ , but I’ve also seen you swallow back all that emotion and never express it. Why do you think I took up photography? I needed an outlet, Hawke. You have your work, but that’s not the same thing—all it does is help you force everything down. That isn’t healthy. You’re my best friend, Hawke, but I can’t move back in with you until you get this sorted out. All right?”

Carver shuts his eyes against the wind. “All right. Promise you won’t tell Bethy?”

“Promise. But only because you’re probably going to end up talking to her about it yourself, once the worst is over.” Fenris knows him too bloody well. “I’m going to hang up now. You should go somewhere warm, Hawke, I can hear the fucking wind blowing through the speaker so I know you’re somewhere cold and wet and miserable.”

“I _feel_ cold and wet and miserable.”

“Yeah, because you’re standing outside in fucking March. Get inside, get something to eat. And talk to Cullen. It’s two hours back to London, you need _something_ to pass the time.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He ends the call and put his phone in the pocket of the bomber jacket, fingers glancing off a cold, hard shape at the bottom. Out of it he pulls the little fox pin—generic, with a pinch-tab close, and little black eyes hand-painted on that are just slightly left of center. _Get inside, you berk_ , those eyes seem to say. He’s not sure whether the voice belongs to Fenris or Felix, but either way he finds he’s in hearty agreement. He stands there for a little while until his ears go numb and his nose starts to run, and then he turns and heads back down the hill, feeling a little more at peace.

* * *

 

Felix is only reminded of how long it’s been since he’s seen his mum when she opens the door to her little cottage and falls back with a hand to her breast. “Be still my heart! Is this my darling son, or do my eyes deceive me?”

“Hey, Mum,” he says sheepishly, allowing himself to be drawn into a strong, lily-of-the-valley scented embrace. “When did you dye your hair purple?”

“Oh, last week. But never mind that, how was Spain? You took pictures, yes? Come in, love, you’ll catch cold standing out on the doorstep.”

“I can’t stay very long,” he warns regretfully. “Blood tests later, but I wanted to catch you before you leave for Myanmar.”

“Of course. I’m happy to see you, luv, as always.” She takes his coat and chivvies him into the living room, which is, as ever, in a state of organized clutter: the magazine rack overflowing with subscriptions and, strangely, a houseplant; succulents clumped together on the coffee table text to empty mugs and plates scattered with crumbs; the floor clear of detritus but layered with rugs of every shape and pattern imaginable. Her landlord is strict about painting the walls, so she makes do in other ways. “Can I get you anything? Tea? There isn’t much food in the house because I’m leaving for a few weeks, but maybe I can scrounge up some honey toasts?”

“That would be great, thanks Mum.” He lets himself drop onto the couch with a floof of displaced cushion and sighs happily. “Who’s watching the plants this time?”

“Friend of mine, Winnie, lives next door with her wife. They’re absolute dolls, they’ve had a key for ages in case of emergency.” Her voice fades as she wanders into the kitchen, but she calls out over the clatter of dishes and the hum of the kettle, “D’you still have yours?”

“Yep! On my key ring. Did you need me to check on anything while you’re gone?”

“Oh, no, everything’s arranged. You just worry about you. How are your studies coming? Gereon said you made quite a lot of progress on your thesis while you were on holiday.”

Felix blinks at the ceiling in surprise. “I didn’t realize you two were speaking?”

“ _Speaking_? Of course we are, darling, we’re separated, not mortal enemies.”

“I didn’t really mean it like _that_ —I meant you don’t go out of your way to communicate.”

“I’ll give you that,” comes the muted response. “So? Studies, my dear? I didn’t get the details, only the bare minimum of polite conversation. So dreadfully stoic, when will he learn that he’s never going to remarry with an attitude like that?”

“I don’t think he wants to _remarry_ ,” Felix chuffs under his breath, but that’s not a conversation he’s prepared to have right now. “They’re going well, Mum. I made some new developments to the practical parts of my thesis, and Doctor E. was very impressed. Which is good, because he was kicking up a dreadful fuss about my going to Spain.”

“You should have told him to stuff it and that he wasn’t invited,” came Lilavati’s merry response, soon drowned out by the howl of the kettle. Felix drops his eyes to the coffee table, looking for a safe place to prop up his heels amidst the sketchbooks and miniature succulents, and pauses. There’s a copy of OUT! magazine sitting under a saucer, most of it hidden except for a bit of text proclaiming _Undercover Queer: The Gay Men London Never Sees._ The author is listed underneath: Doctor Anders Thórirsson. He leans forward for a better look. “Mum, what’s this?”

“What’s what, darling?” She pokes her head around the corner in time to see him slide the magazine free of the saucer. “Oh! Picked it up from the shops today. Did you know Dorian is in it? I didn’t know that! Why didn’t he say? No one ever tells me anything.”

She disappears again before he can even open his mouth to offer any insight, so he settles for flipping open to the article in question. It’s the main feature, special edition or something, so it takes up nearly half the magazine, and he has to bypass quite a few pages before landing on Dorian’s segment. A quick skim of the article reveals that it’s from Dorian’s perspective, but the photo they used is really Dorian _and_ Cullen, being adorable and domestic in their new kitchen: Dorian at the stove, laughing at something Cullen has just said, and Cullen standing behind him with his hands on Dorian’s hips, while steam wreathes their smiling faces and suffuses the photograph with a desaturated amber glow. His eyes trail down to the bottom, where the artist credit sits in tiny, pristine font: _Fenris Vinter, photographer, friend of the subject(s)._

“Oh,” he says aloud, startling himself. He hadn’t realized Fenris had been the one to take the photos. He flips back, but the rest are a mix of photographers. Forward again, past Dorian, and he finds Fenris’ name a few more times—most notably under a picture of Maxwell Trevelyan, of bloody course, lounging poolside with his sister and looking stupidly tan and godlike for a midwinter Brit. Felix snorts and bypasses it with a flick of disdain.

His stomach swoops unexpectedly and his mouth goes dry. Staring out of the page at him, smoky-eyed and smudged with sawdust in loving high-definition, is Carver. There’s another photo of him further down bent over his woodworking, wedged into the panel of text like an afterthought, but the first is the one that captivates him. He can see every freckle on Carver’s nose, every facet of his deeply, brilliantly blue eyes—every detail he’s ached to fully appreciate is now laid out for his leisurely perusal. His brows are furrowed a little bit, his lips parted as if about to speak; a lock of his dark hair, longer on the top than the close-cut sides, falls over his forehead and curls into his impossibly long lashes. It’s as if Carver is staring straight at him, heavy-lidded and relaxed, and his heart pounds in his chest at the one-sided intimacy seizing him in its implacable grip.

“I know that look.”

Felix starts away from the page and snaps the magazine shut. “What look?”

Lilavati is smirking wickedly, but she softens it into something that looks _sort_ of motherly as she strolls languidly into the room. “That doe-eyed look. I’ve seen it before, but not in a very long time.”

“ _Mum_ ,” Felix groans, even though he’s blushing, and it’s far too late to deny anything—but damned if he isn’t going to try. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Who’s the one swooning over magazines, dearest?” She takes his face in her hands and kisses his cheek, loudly. “But never mind, I can see you’re determined not to talk about it. Come have tea with me, sweetheart, and show me these pictures from Spain. Especially the ones of your father on the beach, looking pasty and saggy around the middle. I’ve been looking forward to those.”

“There aren’t very many,” Felix warns her, but the spell is broken—he sets the magazine aside and follows her into the kitchen, warm with amusement and the promise of tea, and puts Carver Hawke out of his mind.

A few hours later finds him leaving the clinic at Redcliffe, inner elbow still stinging with disinfectant under his coat. It’s the one Dorian gifted him, the fawn-colored double breasted wool, which is a bit warm for a rainy early spring day like this, but his bomber jacket has fled to parts unknown and he isn’t really that bothered about it. The idea of Carver wearing his jacket is… quite pleasing. Aesthetically. From an artistic perspective. He shakes the cobwebs out of his head and makes for the hospital café. He could use some sugar in his system.

There’s only one other person in line when he arrives, a young woman, and he falls in a healthy distance behind her to scan the chalkboard menu. There’s something familiar about her that keeps drawing his eye, though it’s hard to pin down what exactly; she’s facing away from him, perusing the teas on offer, and she’s wearing a slouchy beanie that covers her hair. But then she straightens up and half-turns, scanning the café area, and Felix makes the connection as her eyes light up with recognition.

“Bethany! Hello, what a pleasant surprise. It’s good to see you.”

“Thank you,” she says, laughing—she’s got a look in her eye, something sort of mischievous, that reminds him of the flashes of the _real_ Carver he’s been (rarely) allowed to see. “What are you doing here, may I ask? Or—oh, are you visiting your father? He’s the doctor, right, the famous one?”

“Ugh, yes, not so loud.” He cuts in close, hand hovering over her elbow, and it’s so _weird_ to see Carver’s brilliant blue eyes in another face, lined with mascara and flecked with bits of gold that must come from another genetic marker. “What are you getting? Whatever it is, it’s on me.”

“Oh goodness, you don’t have to do that—”

“I know I don’t _have_ to, but I want to. Unless you’re in a rush and you’d rather not?”

“No, I’m not in a rush, not really. My tests got done sooner than I thought, I’m just waiting for Carv to pick me up. Knowing him, it might be awhile. What are you getting?”

The cashier is waiting patiently—no one else is in line behind them—and Felix allows himself the leisure of exploring the pastries, feeling the keen throb of the needle still lingering in the crook of his elbow. He _hates_ getting blood drawn, but at least this time was easier than the last. He’ll blame the unseasonable spat of good weather. “I think I’ll have a cheesecake,” he says, “in a takeaway carton, please, I don’t think I’ll be able to finish all of it. And a juice.”

“Are you sure?” Bethany clarifies, one hand drifting to the glass case.

“Go ahead. I recommend the croissants if you don’t have a sweet tooth, they’re divine.”

“Come here often?” She laughs, at him and at her own joke. “I’ll get the rooibos, please, and a butter croissant. Toasted. Thank you so much.”

“Often enough,” Felix says, mostly to himself, and pulls out his wallet. When he’s paid and they’ve settled at a table with their treats, he twists the cap off his juice and asks, “Carver said you used to work at Harold’s. Do you miss it?”

“Oh, every day,” she sighs. She bends over her croissant like a bird, picking apart the soft, flaky crust into steaming layers to cool. “I mean, the work itself isn’t difficult or inspiring, really, but I miss the regulars—there’s all sorts of interesting people that come there, and I used to love hearing their stories. And having a little extra pocket change was nice. But Carver spoils me rotten, so I can’t really complain there.” She grins at him over her rooibos. “Remind me, how did you meet Carver? It was a commission, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. A bookcase for my friend Dorian.”

“Dorian… Pavus? As in Professor Pavus?”

“Yes! He teaches at Calenhad.”

Bethany is nodding along. “History and Ancient Languages, yeah? I took one of his basic courses for fun, I loved it. I wanted to take his class on Etruscan architecture but… well, you know.” She waves her hand, wrist delicate and bird-boned. “The whole cancer thing. A bit of a drag.”

“I know what you mean,” Felix says automatically, and then curses himself. Barely more than five minutes spent in her company and he’s already slipped—usually he’s much more careful.

“You do?” Bethany says, voice a little rusty—like she’s suddenly reevaluating him, not as a _patient_ but as a _peer_. “I mean—sorry, it’s totally none of my business.”

“It’s all right. I, ah, I’m not really forthcoming with it. Sorry, I didn’t mean to just blurt it out like that.”

“It’s fine. No harm done.” She munches a piece of croissant and pops the lid off her tea to let it cool. “So how do you know Dorian, then?”

He hides his sigh of relief in his juice. She isn’t going to ask. “We grew up together. Our fathers were in the same field, and they went to the same schools; Dorian was a few years ahead of me in university, but we roomed together when he was working for his tenure and I was starting grad school. He was always brilliant,” he says, and he knows he sounds a little bit wistful, but that’s all right. Being in someone’s shadow doesn’t mean he can’t be happy for them. 

“I really enjoyed him as a professor,” Bethany agrees. “He made me laugh _and_ taught me things, which is a fine line to tread.” 

“I’ll tell him you said so. He loves getting feedback from his students, it’s good for his ego.”

“Even the bad reviews?”

“ _Especially_ the bad reviews,” Felix says with relish, provoking a peal of delighted laughter. He grins along with her and glances away, reminded sharply of Carver’s deep, resonant giggle, so unexpected from such a stoic person. 

“Felix? Is that you?”

They both turn, startled out of their camaraderie, and Felix’s stomach plummets like a stone. There’s a young woman standing near their table, with a short dark pixie cut and huge, dark eyes like new moons in her pale face. _It can’t really be her. Can it?_ The hair is different, no longer bleached bone-white, but those eyes are unmistakable.

“Riley,” he manages at last, sounding like he’s swallowed sand. He feels like he’s stepped into a bad dream, the kind where he’s been stripped to his pants and is standing in front of the graduate department at Calenhad like a specimen flayed open for their perusal. “You changed your hair.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” She laughs, strained, and he suddenly remembers Bethany sitting there, staring at him fit to burn a hole through his skull. He clears his throat. 

“Beth, this is Riley, my… an old friend from school. Riley, Bethany.”

“It’s so good to meet you,” Riley says, latching onto the topic with the slightly manic effusiveness that Felix has always found alarming. She doesn’t shake Beth’s hand, but she turns her thousand-watt smile on her and Bethany only seems to grow calmer beneath its glare. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I haven’t seen Felix in absolute ages, I just had I come over and say hello.” She turns to Felix, and he braces himself unconsciously. “It’s so good to see you—branching out, and all. You look good, Fee.” 

He was ready for it, but he still isn’t prepared for his nickname in _that_ voice, fond and syrup-sweet like she still has some kind of claim on him. “What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, more calmly than he feels. “ _Branching out_? Oh, would you like to hear the same? You look good too, Ri, let’s get drinks and catch up and laugh about the good old days?”

She recoils a bit, the smile dimming, but the tension is broken when Bethany’s phone jumps across the table, buzzing with an incoming call. She snatches it up, a little pale. “Sorry, I’ll just take this. Excuse me.” And she’s gone in a flash, leaving Felix bereft and alone, anger fading into helplessness. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, dropping the slapdash attempt at gentility. 

“Did you get my messages?” she replies. She folds her arms across her skinny chest and waits, hovering over him like a skeletal tree, roots exposed to the howling elements. 

“Yes.”

“And you ignored me.”

“What else was I supposed to do? Forgive me, but I try and think of you as little as possible these days.”

“Why? Are you still mad at me for that? Something that wasn’t even my fault?” 

Felix resists the urge to stand. “You know I could press charges, don’t you?”

“You wouldn’t be able to prove it, not anymore.”

“I have medical records, Ri, and so do you.” He rubs his face wearily and wishes Beth would come back. “The only reason I haven’t is that it doesn’t seem fair, what with…”

“Rehab? You can say the word, I won’t turn into a pillar of salt or anything.”

“No, it’s not that. The whole thing is asinine, just another way to criminalize people for their sexuality.” He holds up his hands before she can even speak. “You don’t have to tell me you’re straight, doll, I’m perfectly aware. You _know_ the stigma just as well as I do.”

Riley exhales sharply, a punch of breath that flares her nostrils and pinches her blood-red lipstick into a tight little line. She glances over her shoulder, presumably looking for Beth, and lowers her voice and her chin meaningfully. “For what it’s worth, Felix, I’m sorry. I never meant to ruin your life. And it looks like I didn’t do a very good job of it, anyway—she’s lovely. Does she know?”

“That I’m positive? No. And we’re not dating, Ri, she’s just a friend.” No, his heart trips over itself for another Hawke entirely. “But now that you’ve thoroughly ruined my _day_...”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me—”

“Felix!” Bethany bursts back in like an avenging angel, ruddy-cheeked and her beanie askew with excitement. “Shan’s having her baby! You have to come see! I guess Carver’s in the waiting room, he wants us to bring coffee.”

She doesn’t even stop to apologize to Riley, just shoulders her out of the way and loops her arm through his. He takes it with a silent breath of relief and gives Riley a nod. “I’m not mad at you, Ri. Just done with that part of my life. I wish you all the best.” And then he lets Beth lead him toward the till and away from Riley Samson forever. 

* * *

 

Carver is on his way to pick up Bethy in his mum’s car—with express instructions to return it without so much as a scratch; not the first such warning in the two weeks since the accident, and he’s certain it won’t be the last—when his phone rings. Glancing at it quickly in case it’s Beth, he’s surprised to see that it’s Alistair calling. Not his first guess on a Sunday morning. He sets it to speaker and props his phone on the dash. “Hey Alistair, all right?”

“Carver! Thank god I caught you. Listen, Anders is supposed to be getting in from his flight in twenty minutes, but Shani just went into labor—we’re at Redcliffe now, and I can’t leave. Are you free? Could you pick him up from Heathrow and bring him over?”

Carver glances at the clock. It’ll make him even later to the hospital, but he’s sure Bethy won’t mind. Not for this. “Yeah, ’course. It’s sort of on my way.”

“Perfect, thank you so much. I owe you one, mate!”

“’Course you don’t,” Carver says, but the line is already clicking off. Poor bloke is probably scared witless. Smirking a bit, he changes lanes and sets his phone’s GPS to Heathrow.

The first person he sees in arrivals is Fenris. He’s wearing a deep plum jumper under his black wool coat, his hair just as tousled and poofy as ever. They haven’t spent any time together since the restaurant, although they’ve texted a little back and forth, and seeing him now send a little thrill of fear through him. He clears his throat from a safe distance away before coming closer; Fenris glances over his shoulder and does a brief double-take before turning fully, taking the few half-steps to meet him in the middle of the terminal.

“Hey, Fen.”

“Hawke.” Fenris sounds... cautiously pleased. He’ll take it. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Shani’s having the baby a little ahead of schedule—not an emergency, just unexpected. Alistair called and asked me to bring Anders to the hospital. D’you know when he lands?”

“Right now, if the board is correct. I could try texting, but I think his phone is dead...”

“No need.” He looks past Fen’s shoulder to where Anders is striding toward them with his carryon bag slung over his shoulder, a bit rumpled-looking, but quickly gaining alertness when he recognizes Carver. “He’s not going to chew me out, is he?”

“No,” Fen says, quirking a smile. “He knows better, unlike some people.”

“Ouch. Low blow.”

“Yes. It was quite good, wasn’t it?”

“What’s going on?” Anders says, breaking the tentative thread of humor they’ve forged. He doesn’t touch Fenris or kiss his cheek, but he stands close enough that their elbows brush; Fen’s taut shoulders unwind a little. Interesting. “Is something wrong?”

“Shani’s in labor,” Fenris offers before Carver can explain. “Carver is going to bring us to the hospital.”

“Oh my god. Is she all right, is everything okay? My phone died, I haven’t had a chance to charge it—”

“I have a cord with me,” Fenris says.

Carver looks at him. “You do?”

“I’m always prepared, Hawke, you know this.” To Anders he adds, without batting an eyelash, “Shani and the baby are fine, just a little ahead of schedule.”

They arrive at the car and Fen slips into the back seat, fumbling in his backpack. He produces a long white cord which he passes to Anders in the passenger seat. “Plug this into the cigarette lighter and it will charge your mobile.”

Carver glances askance at Anders’ shaking hands as he pulls into traffic. “Is that legal?”

“It’s technology, Hawke. You might have heard of it.” Fenris zips his bag shut with finality as Anders fumbles with the cord. “Your mother’s car doesn’t have a charging port, so this will do just as well.”

The rest of the ride is mostly silent, punctuated with Anders’ tense breathing and the occasional spate of texting as his phone comes back to life. When Carver parks, he’s out of the car in a flash and racing ahead on his long gazelle legs; Carver and Fenris follow more slowly, still keeping him in sight as they navigate the hospital corridors to the maternity ward. When they arrive, Anders appears to be in some kind of debate with an irate-looking nurse, whose beefy arms are folded over the front of her kitten-print scrubs forebodingly.

“I’m sorry, sir, but only family is allowed inside.”

“Yes, up to two people! Alistair is one, I’m the other.”

The nurse looks down her nose at him. “And who exactly _are_ you?”

“I’m the father,” Anders states calmly.

The nurse scowls harder. “The father is already in the birth room—”

“I’m the BIOLOGICAL father,” Anders practically bellows. “Good grief woman, it’s the twenty-first century!”

Carver’s honestly afraid Anders might be about to punch the nurse in the face in spite of her well-muscled build—and if not him, Fenris looks just as ready and able—when Alistair flings open the door and grabs Anders by the wrist. “You’re here! Come on, you’re missing it!”

And they’re gone again. Carver clears his throat. “Thank you, ma’am, we’ll just wait out here.”

“Thank goodness for that,” the nurse grumbles as she returns to her station.

Carver blows out a huge breath and turns to Fenris. “I’m sorry about this—I know it’s probably not what you expected when you went to meet him at the airport. Do you want me to drive you anywhere? Or get you dinner, or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is far more interesting than—whatever it is Anders had planned. Probably ordering in and falling asleep on the couch before the food arrived.” He throws himself into one of the rickety chairs lining the wall and folds his hands over his stomach. “But I wouldn’t say no to a snack.”

“Right, let me just—oh my god.” He grabs for his phone, still blank of texts—but then, it’s only ten minutes or so after Beth’s appointment, maybe she just thinks  he’s running late. “I was supposed to get Bethy, let me just call her…”

“There you are!” she says when she picks up, a little bit breathless.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to text you—Shan’s having the baby,” he says in a rush.

“She’s _what_?”

Carver winces, holding the phone slightly away from his ear. “Easy. She’s having the baby, I picked up Anders from the airport at the last minute and we’re here now, Fen and me. D’you want to come join our vigil?”

“Oh god, that’s perfect,” she mumbles, and then falls silent. Carver waits.

“Beth?”

“I’m in the café,” she says hurriedly, “I was with Felix, we ran into each other and decided to get tea, but this weird girl showed up and she’s talking to him now, and he doesn’t look very happy. I think she’s an ex-girlfriend or something. And this is the perfect excuse for a rescue!”

“I—an ex-girlfriend? Bethy, is this really the time—”

“I’m not _setting you up_ , dolt, he looks genuinely upset—hang on, I have to go. We’ll bring pastries!”

“And coffee!” he calls down the line, provoking a warning hiss from the nurse’s station. Bethy has already hung up. With a sigh, he texts her the request and sits down next to Fenris, rubbing his eyes. “Bloody hell. She’s coming with snacks—and she’s bringing Felix.”

“ _Felix_ is here?” Fenris utters, teeth clasping around the name as if it’s an exotic treat. “How _delicious_.”

“Fen—” Whatever he’s about to say it cut off when a piercing cry emerges from Shani’s room. He rockets out of the chair again, heart thumping wildly. “Was that—”

“Mother _fuck_!” Shani hollers through the door. “Don’t you fucking faint on me Alistair Theirin! Don’t you dare!”

“Nope,” Fenris says, laughing silently, “that was Shani. Do you want to relocate to the lounge down the hall? Perhaps a little more... romantic?”

“Shut up,” Carver snaps. “Are you coming or not?”

“Won’t I be a third wheel?” Fenris inquires mildly, though he stands and brushes imaginary dust from his dark wash jeans.

“No! Fuck’s sake. You’ll be moral support. And Bethany’s going to be there, so don’t go getting any ideas.”

It’s certainly more peaceful in the lounge. It connects the maternity wards with the wings devoted to prenatal and postnatal care, the entire floor suspended above the hospital atrium with glass everywhere to let in the streaming silver-grey London light. Couches and armchairs in neutral shades are scattered throughout the room, interspersed with potted plants and little side tables strewn with magazines meant to keep expectant family members occupied. Carver sprawls in one of the couches, antsy, knees wide and heels tapping on the ground. Fenris spares him a raised eyebrow, and  he closes the width of his legs a bit. “What?”

“Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe that you’re gay.” But he’s smirking, a bit, when he sits down delicately beside him on the cushions. “Nervous?”

“No. About what? Shani? She could punch a mountain and come out on top, I’m not really worried.”

“About _Felix_ , you idiot. Bringing coffee.”

“Can you stop?” Carver huffs, brusquely. “Sorry, I just… it’s not happening, all right? I’m not ready. Just let me pine from afar for a little while. Do this at my own pace.” He folds his hands, fingers slotting together imperfectly, calloused and well-worn. Beside him, Fenris shifts, shoulders brushing together. It’s the first time Fen has touched him since the night at the restaurant, and it feels… nice. It feels like home.

Voices redirect his attention, and they both look up like dogs perking toward an unfamiliar sound. Beth comes around the corner giggling, her beanie pulled low over her forehead and carrying a paper bag from the cafe; beside her strolls Felix, a little wan but still smiling gamely at whatever joke they're sharing, balancing a drinks tray laden with paper coffee cups. When he looks up and sees Carver, he seems to relax a bit, smile going soft around the edges where it blurs into his beard. He's wearing his glasses today, which give him a vaguely owlish appearance. Carver averts his eyes and gets an elbow in the side from Fenris almost at the same time. 

“Don’t stare, Hawke.”

“I’m _not_ staring,” he hisses, and stands up to greet them. “Hey Bethy, how was your appointment?”

“Great. They’ve cleared me for chemo next week and then they’re going to do the transfusion.” She scrunches her nose and leans into him, passing him the bag. “Here. Got some treats for you, since we’re apparently camping out.”

Fenris nods at her companion. “How’d you pick up this stray?”

“Picking up strays is my favorite hobby. Plus he bought me coffee, it only seemed fair to bring him along.”

“To this little circus?” Carver laughs. “Brave man.” 

“Actually,” Felix says, quietly but with purpose, “Bethany saved me from having to catch up with someone I used to know in school, so I feel I owed her. Not that it’s a hardship to spend time with any of you.” 

“Be careful,” Fenris warns. “That’s how it starts. One foot in the family and before you know it you’re an adopted Hawke. Leandra can’t help herself.”

“Leandra?”

“My Mum,” Carver and Bethany say at the same time—and then, in tandem, they look at one another and laugh. 

“Okay, that was odd,” Felix says, and Fenris snorts. 

“Get used to it. They may look like different people, but they have one mind.” 

They all sit down again and pass out the contents of the bag. Carver grips his coffee cup gratefully, first inhaling the steam before taking a cautious test sip. It’s not as good as Harold’s, of course, but it’ll do the trick. Fenris has been brought tea, and there are pastries to choose from, and all in all it’s a very relaxing sort of wait. He knows Shani—she’s tougher than nails, and whatever happens he has no doubt she’ll pull through with flying colors.

It’s a little more nerve-wracking for poor Alistair, who shows up about half an hour later very pale and sweaty-palmed and still in his scrubs. He collapses on the couch beside Bethany when they hail him over, and she squeezes his hand gently. “How’s it going?”

“Uh... good, I think,” Alistair says weakly, his smile wobbling a bit. Carver sees him eyeing their cafe haul, and he passes over a cheese danish. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“When did you last eat, Ali?” Bethy tuts. “Come on, you’ll be no good if you end up fainting from low blood sugar.”

“I don’t think it’s the blood sugar that’s getting to me.” 

“How’s she doing?”

“Uh. I don’t really know? It’s only been an hour, right? That’s not that long.”

“She’s going to be all right,” Fenris says, his deep voice unexpected in the quiet. 

“Anders is with her?” Carver asks. 

“Yeah. I’ll go back in a minute, I just—well, he told me to step out, actually.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I thought I was ready for this—to see it happen, I mean, obviously I’m ready for the baby. Whoever she is.”

“It’s a girl?” Bethany exclaims, clapping delightedly, and Alistair covers his face with his hands.

“Bloody hell. I wasn’t supposed to say anything.” 

“Alistair!” Anders appears in the hallway, flushed and waving urgently. “She’s crowning, come on! You’ll miss it!”

Alistair is up in a flash, shoving the rest of the danish into his mouth and flicking the crumbs away from the collar of his scrubs as he hurries after Anders. The rest of them eye one another, suddenly tense. After a moment, Bethany gets up and perches on Carver’s knee, throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh my god, I can’t believe it’s finally happening.”

“Me neither.” He squeezes her carefully around the waist, mindful of his strength, and breathes in the strawberry-citrus of her perfume and the antiseptic still clinging to her arms. “Are you excited?”

“Yes! Fen, are you excited?” She kicks his ankle gently; he huffs but allows it.

“Naturally.”

“ _Naturally_? That’s all you have to say? Your boyfriend is having a baby!”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Fenris says automatically. “And it’s only his child genetically speaking; Alistair is the father.”

“Semantics,” Bethany decides. “And he’s going to be a part of the baby’s life, regardless. As a _family friend_ , isn’t that right? So doesn’t that make you _Uncle Fen-fen_?”

“Ugh.” Fen’s disgusted noise has been honed to perfection over the years, but Carver know that underneath he’s bubbling with excitement just as much as Bethany is, even if he’s very good at hiding it.

He looks past her shoulder to where Felix is sitting alone, watching the tableau with faint amusement. “What about you, Fee? Are you excited?”

Felix seems to startle a little at the nickname, but he smooths it over with a polite smile, scooting to the edge of the cushion. “Very excited. I, er, don’t really know the family all that well, though, I don’t want to intrude…”

“Oh nonsense, you’re not intruding,” Beth says, but she’s not looking at Felix, she’s looking at something over Carver’s shoulder. “Mum, you’re here! Aren’t I right? Felix isn’t intruding?”

“I’m sure he’s not,” Leandra says, her voice floating over Carver’s head, rich with amusement. He feels her hand come down on his shoulder and a quick kiss alights on the side of his head. “This clan is so convoluted I doubt Shani will even notice you’re not related.” Another kiss for Bethy, then one for Fenris, who tolerates it, and then Leandra goes to sit beside Felix, taking his hand as graciously as a hostess in her own parlor. Sometimes Carver forgets she was raised to practically be nobility. “You must be Felix Alexius whom I’ve heard so much about. How do you do, my dear?”

Felix shakes her hand, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. “Er… yes, hello. It’s good to meet you, Mrs. Hawke.”

“Please, call me Leandra. I don’t stand on ceremony—I have too many children for that.” She stares pointedly at Fenris, who straightens up from his slouch and folds his hands neatly in his lap. “Speaking of which, Marian is on her way, and Shani’s parents have been notified; they’re already on a train to London, I expect they’ll be here in a few hours. Has there been any news?”

“She’s almost done, we think,” Carver offers. “Al was here a minute ago, but Anders came to get him.”

Felix looks a bit alarmed by the proximity of Leandra, so Carver pats Bethy’s back and, thus encouraged, she goes over to sit beside their mother and distract her with a discussion about her appointment. Felix meets Carver’s eyes, mouth quirked; when Carver tilts his head, he comes to sit beside him, tea clasped firmly in his hands.

“You looked a little nervous,” Carver explains lowly.

“I didn’t mean to—I just, it was unexpected.”

“You really don’t have to stay, you know. You were sort of roped into this.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t mind. Alistair has actually been sitting in on my self-defense classes occasionally, and I met Shani at the Gala, so I’m not _entirely_ out of place.” He smiles, quick and self-deprecating. “Plus I’m a little paranoid. I’d rather not run into anyone again so soon.”

“Your friend? Or, uh, acquaintance?”

“Ex,” Felix confides quietly. “Ex-girlfriend, that is. We were together in college, but had a rough breakup. And _now_ , of course, she’s eager to talk. I definitely owe your sister for getting me out of it.”

“Bethy doesn’t really keep score of things like that.” He glances over at her, leaning into Leandra’s side with a strained but hopeful look in her tired eyes, and feels a pang of fondness in his ribs.

“She’s an amazing human being, from what little I’ve seen. You have a lovely family, Carver.”

“Even if you’re afraid of my mother?”

“I’m not _afraid_ ,” Felix hisses, provoking a storm of giggles. Carver smothers them in his coffee as best he can, but he knows it’s a lost cause when Bethy and his mum give them odd looks from their couch. “I’m not. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Carver asks innocently.

“Like… never mind.” He tucks his nose into his cardboard cup, and a waft of steam rises up to cloud his glasses. Carver feels the sudden inexplicable urge to take them off and wipe them clean. To busy his hands with something else, he drinks his own coffee, ignoring Fenris when he smothers amused noises into his collar. Carver quietly resolves to get him back for it.

The awkwardness is smoothed over when Anders returns, grinning fit to burst—his hair is rumpled and sweaty, face flushed, and he looks like he’s just won a million dollars. “She’s here! Six pounds three ounces—Anora Grace Theirin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: I'm glossing over some stuff like the ASBO and the UK hospital/health care system because I don't have a lot of cultural knowledge and I'd rather spend time writing than researching the tiniest details of stuff that's a little less important (imo) than, say, leukemia treatment. If anything looks terribly out of place, let me know and I'll fix it. 
> 
> Quick note: I've mentioned Samson before but I'm playing around with altering his character function, and I haven't quite decided whether to keep him as Carver's old psychiatrist, turn him into Felix's ex, or make Riley Samson his daughter, etc. etc. I wanted Riley to have some thread tying her back to a canon name, so I've picked Samson for now, but that is subject to change. The pitfalls of posting a WIP! Hopefully it's minor enough that you can ignore it.


	11. 11.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say for this chapter except that the usual warnings apply, and sorry again for the delay! Lots of irl stuff happening, but hopefully I can get us back on track to updating on Sundays within the next few weeks. Also, we're a third of the way there, roughly! Huzzah!

“Who is Anora?” Felix asks on the pavement outside Redcliffe, shoulders hunched against the fine grey mist falling from the sky. Beside him, Carver shuffles his feet a bit. “I mean, the name just seemed… significant? But I know it’s not really any of my business—”

“You don’t need to keep apologizing for being curious, you know,” Carver says. “It’s just—a long story.” He glances at him sidelong. “And I don’t want to keep you standing out here any longer than you have to.” 

“Do you baby everyone?” Felix wonders, not quite a rebuke, but Carver seems to flinch from it regardless. 

“Only the people I give two shits about. Sorry—sorry, that was uncalled for.” _Shuffle, shuffle_ , say his feet against the ground. “Er, I was just heading to the tube, did you have plans?”

“I should probably get to campus, actually, but…” He suddenly would like nothing more than to _not_ got to campus and work on his thesis. But he has no real excuse to get on the tube, and he doesn’t think he’s pathetic enough to make one up.

Carver’s hands are in his pockets, fidgeting. “I could stand to stretch my legs. Want company?”

“Yeah, if you like.”

So they walk shoulder to shoulder down the street, and Carver tells the story—or tries to, anyway. “Anora was Alistair’s first wife.”

“ _What_? I didn’t realize he was married before?”

“Before his rise to fame with Arsenal. It was sort of an arranged thing, they grew up together and their families were very close—the MacTirs and the Theirins have always been joined at the hip. They were both young, blonde, smart, pretty people, it was sort of inevitable. 

“I should mention that Shani was friends with both of them at the time. Anora went to Calenhad for her polisci degree and Shani was in a lot of her classes, they might have even roomed together, I can’t remember. Alistair went for law and ended up being recruited to the Gunners instead. They were married for only a few years when there was an... accident. A car accident.” Carver rubs idly at the faint scabs still littering his brow. “Anora didn’t make it. It was a huge blow to Ali, and it set back his career because of it—took him a while to find his feet again. Part of the reason he pulled through was Shani. She was deployed at the time, but she was almost as heartbroken as he was, and they wrote heaps and heaps of letters back and forth while they worked through their grief. And eventually, well... you know that part of the story, I’m sure.”

“Falling in love, mutual retirement, forging ahead into new business prospects?” Felix suggests with the poetic air of a high-flown romance. Carver chuckles. 

“Yeah, pretty much that.”

“And how does Anders factor in?”

“He knew Shan first, I think—they met on her last tour of duty when he was writing his last book. They might have had a fling before she and Ali got together, but I’m not sure, and I haven’t asked for details.” He shudders dramatically. “That’s Bethy’s prerogative, not mine.”

“Inappropriate details?”

“Gossip. Girl stuff. Sex. Everything I _don’t_ want to know about my family members, especially my twin sister.”

“So you have no idea if she’s…”

“If she’s what?”

Felix twists his wrist in an awkward gesture, belatedly wishing he hadn’t pursued this line of questioning. “Gay, straight, et cetera.”

Carver goes quiet for a moment. “Are you asking because you… _like_ her?”

 _Shit. No. Backtrack, immediately._ “What? Oh, no, not at all—I mean yes, platonically, I like her. Not otherwise.” He raises an eyebrow. “But I’m a little offended at how unpleasant you made it sound.” 

Carver huffs. “Like I said, don’t want to think about it. In any capacity. And if you were trying to bone my sister I would feel obligated to threaten you with all kinds of bodily harm, and I don’t like doing that to people I…”

“Give two shits about?” Felix fills in. 

“Hah. Yeah. Exactly.” 

“Did you know Anora?”

“A little bit. More like I knew who she was. I was a kid when she died, really, but I do remember her funeral. Or, ah, I remember refusing to go to her funeral and getting dragged there anyway.”

Felix reaches for his elbow automatically, like he would with Dorian, and flinches back at the last minute—the only result is that he ends up brushing Carver’s arm gently instead of linking arms, and he’s not sure which is worse. But Carver huffs some kind of laugh and knocks their elbows together, and it’s all right.

“Well, um. This is my stop.” He jerks his head behind him to the U of C library, the great, sprawling brick beast that it is, and sort of wishes their arms _were_ hooked together, even if it were just as friends. “Thank you for… putting up with me today.”

Carver grins down at him, hands in his pockets. “Thanks for tagging along. Um, that reminds me, do you want your jacket back? Because I have it, still, but I, um, haven’t had a chance to return it yet…”

“It’s fine,” Felix says, smiling benignly. “Whenever we run into each other again—which reminds me, who’s taking over the Knight Club while Alistair and Shani are on leave?”

“Oh, it’s a bit scrambled. I’m taking on some extra stuff, so is Fen and Cullen and Cassandra. It’ll work out somehow.”

Felix nods, trying not to appear too hopeful. “I might see you Sunday, then? I’ve got self-defense then.”

“Yeah, absolutely. I’ll bring it ’round. And stop in, you know, see how things are going. You like it so far?”

“It’s… a challenge. It’s great, Fenris has been very patient with me.”

“Yeah, he’s good at that.” Carver blinks, eyes drifting far away for a moment or two. “He’s more patient than I deserve.”

“I don’t think that’s for you to decide, is it?” Felix says gently. “He’s your friend. He loves you. Patience is not a finite source—sometimes it just needs… replenishing.”

Carver nods once, shortly. “Right. Thanks for the reminder. I’ll, um, see you around. Thanks for the walk.”

“Thanks for the story.” He wants to shake his head, for some odd reason, or maybe just take it and hold it awhile. Instead he smiles, brief but heartfelt, and gives a decisive nod before turning and walking into the library.

///

Fencing is not as strenuous as usual this week, and Carver isn’t sure if it’s because Cullen is going easy on him, or if it’s because they’re all stretched thin—Cassandra especially. She only makes a few brief appearances, busy checking in on all the other classes going on, and the rest of them are slow enough that Cullen cuts things short and sends them on their way. Carver spends the rest of the day running interference between Min and Cass, and he’s so busy he doesn’t even have a chance to think about his conversation with Felix until he checks his phone at the end of the day and finds a text waiting.

_I hear the club was busy today. Don’t worry about stopping by tomorrow if it’s inconvenient._

He rubs his eyebrow, smiling down at his phone like a fool with the damp steam of his hasty locker-room shower still curling around his shoulders. _wasn’t too terrible. I think I can manage to pop in :)_

He dresses slowly, waiting for another message, but nothing comes until he’s halfway home, bundled optimistically in Felix’s leather jacket. He resists the urge to check his phone until he’s let himself into his apartment—the door _finally_ fixed thanks to a little DIY effort—and is sitting on the edge of the couch like an overeager teenager with his phone in both hands. _Are you sure? I’m sure you have important things to worry about._

_I’m actually looking forward to watching you kick Fen’s ass haha_

The reply comes swiftly. _Thanks for your faith in me but I have yet to manage that._ A brief pause, during which Carver debates how to reply, and then a second text comes: _maybe I’ll kick your ass instead_

 _I’m looking forward to it._ Too much? There’s no immediate response, and he decides to call it a night before he gets carried away.

He’s in the middle of making dinner—which really only means that he’s reheating leftovers from his mum’s house, he _really_ needs to get to Tesco’s soon before he’s living off pot noodles again—when there’s a knock at the door and it clicks open softly. “It’s me!” comes Merrill’s sing-song voice, and she pokes her head in. “Oh! Good, you _are_ home!”

“Where’d you think I was?” he asks, answering the call of the microwave.

“I don’t know. You’ve been out a lot recently, seems like.” She glides further in on quiet feet, bearing a plate of cookies and her knitting bag draped over one shoulder. “Do you mind?”

“’Course not.” He stares at the counter, feeling a bit guilty. “It’s been a bit lonely around here.”

“Since Fen left?” When he doesn’t answer right away, she puts her things on the table and comes to lean her negligible weight against his arm. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around. I didn’t think you’d want me to be. Around, I mean.”

“I have been kind of recluse, haven’t I?” He squeezes the back of his neck and lets his arm drop around her slim shoulders, pulling her close. “I didn’t mean to shut you out, Merr.”

“It’s okay. Alone time can be good.” She nudges him toward his food and goes to fetch them both a beer from the fridge. “But so can people.”

Thus instructed, Carver settles on the couch with food and Top Gear, and Merrill sits on the other end with her knitting. By the halfway point, she’s got her freezing cold toes under his thigh and he’s half asleep, trying to help her count stitches while Lewis Hamilton peels around the race track and generally makes a ponce of himself. Peaches is making things difficult; she’s rarely playful, preferring to laze around on any available flat surface rather than make an effort to be physically active, but today she’s sprawled under the coffee table and batting at the roll of yarn whenever it rolls by, and before the episode is over Carver has to get up and rescue it from her curious clutches.

“What are you making?” he asks, squeezing the ball in one hand. The yarn is thick and soft, nearly the size of his head all rolled up, and from the plastic loop of her knitting needles, a massive explosion of blue-green material is being birthed.

“A new jumper. I’m almost done with the body,” she announced proudly, holding it out for him to feel. Fully stretched out it’s nearly the length of the couch, and full of holes. He peers through it dubiously.

“Is it going to shrink?”

“Only a little. Stop that, you’ll mess it up.” She stuffs her toes under his thigh again and returns to her rhythmic clicking. She peers at him over her work. “Ten minutes and you can try it on.”

“Wait, what? It’s for me?”

“Of course it’s for you, silly. You can’t bear to go shopping for new clothes without breaking out in hives, so I’m intervening.”

Carver looks down at himself and fingers the hem of his rust flannel shirt thoughtfully. “Do you think I should… expand my wardrobe?”

Merrill smiles primly, revealing nothing. “It wouldn’t hurt to branch out. But I’m not the one you need to impress, am I?”

Carver snorts. “I’m not looking to impress _anyone_. If they happen to be impressed anyway, that’s their prerogative.”

“I like that attitude. You can’t please everyone, so just be yourself.” She prods her toes into his knee cap, smirking. “Eventually someone will fall for it.”

“Stop it, you. I don’t need another matchmaker on the team.” He shakes his head. “Bethy is bad enough.”

“Yes, I heard. Ooh! Do you have pictures of Nora? I want to see!”

“Yeah, all right, let me get my phone.” He levers himself off the couch with a little effort and finds his phone in the kitchen. When he wakes up the screen to put in his passcode, there’s a message waiting for him from Felix.

_So am I._

///

“Hawke! You’re just in time.” Fenris waves him into the small gym, smirking. Felix is beside him, already pink and dewy-cheeked with exercise; like Fen, he’s wearing snug black leggings and light trainers, but instead of a skintight black thermal he’s got on a loose white tee that slumps at the neck, exposing his swooping collarbones and a few licks of color that suggest he’s got more ink under there than what Carver’s already seen. He gives Carver a fleeting smile and rubs his nose.

“Hello.”

“I’m at your service,” Carver says, stepping inside and letting the doors click shut behind him. He looks at Fenris to avoid staring at Felix. “What’ve you been working on?”

“Momentum. Using physics to achieve the desired results.” Fenris quirks a finger at Felix, gesturing for him to stand in the middle of the square mat. “And a little bit of martial arts training, because Felix has an excellent physique for speed and efficiency. We leave the brute-strength stamina to you and your ilk, eh Hawke?” He claps him on the shoulder and stands at the edge of the mat, arms crossed as he examines his pupil. “What do you say about a little demonstration?”

Felix tilts his chin down, a very slight obeisance that isn’t quite a bow. “What do you want me to do?”

Fenris’ eyes glint a subtle mossy green. “Toss him over your hip, Alexius.”

Carver raises his eyebrows. “Is that possible?” he asks. “I mean, no offense, but…” He looks down at himself, and then at Felix. Compared to his comfortable bulk—heavy with natural muscle and toned with frequent use—Felix looks like a feather on the wind, apt to tumble through the air with the slightest draft. But Felix, to his surprise, only smiles.

“Would you like to find out?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

He approaches the mat, surveying Felix with what he hopes is a professional eye. His body is slim and a little underdeveloped, but he holds himself with poise, muscles already acclimating to a ready stance—Carver has no doubt he’s learning well and even flourishing under Fen’s tutelage. But it’s only been a few weeks, not even two full months since he began training. Surely that can’t be enough to put Carver at a disadvantage. He glances at Fenris. “How are we doing this?’

“Well don’t grapple with him, Hawke, for goodness’ sake. This is a demo, not a duel. Just stand there and let him work his magic.”

“Hmph. All right. That’s easy enough.”

Felix chews on his lower lip. “Are you sure? I don’t want to just _attack_ you...”

“It’s fine. You won’t hurt me, I know how to take a hit. Just... pretend I’m some guy in a bar who’s getting too up close and personal.” Felix’s expression shutters like a closing window, and Carver wants to eat his words. _Too close to the mark there, Hawke._ “Or, you know. Not.”

“All right,” Felix says, exhaling. His eyes fall to Carver’s midsection—he subconsciously tightens his abdomen, even though there’s not much to see with his shirt in the way. “Um. Are you just going to stand there?”

“Yeah. It’s good, I’m ready.”

He lets his knees and his elbows loosen, widens his stance like a welcome. Felix approaches him, gives another small not-bow, and brings his hands up to rest lightly on Carver’s shoulders, right at the joints of the bones in their sockets. Carver relaxes his torso and holds himself steady.

Like lightning, Felix’s arms are around his ribs and he’s twisting, the ceiling passing by in the blur and the brief, hard contact of Felix’s hip against his. And then he’s on his back, ears ringing and the stiffness in his neck reminding him he was in a car accident just a few weeks ago, and maybe this hadn’t been the best idea.

“Ow,” he croaks, feeling pathetic—he landed on the mat, dammit, but it was a harder fall than he’d been anticipating. Shame on him for underestimating Felix.

“Oh my god, Carver, are you okay?” Felix is over him immediately, hands fluttering like nervous birds without ever quite touching down. “I completely forgot about your head—”

“It’s fine, it’s… I’m fine.” Still, he lays there a moment more, letting the wind work its way back into him and waiting for his brain to stop spinning. “Fuck, that was fast. You’re better than I thought you’d be.”

Fenris appears in his field of vision, brows crinkled slightly. “Hawke?”

“It’s the, uh, the concussion. Not a big deal.” He sits up and catches Felix’s hand, forcing him to meet his eyes. “It’s fine. You won’t be sued and neither will the Club, I signed a waiver a long time ago.”

Felix’s expression crumples and he smacks Carver in the shoulder with the hand Carver isn’t currently holding. It’s more for show than an actual hit, though, and it’s more endearing than it has any right to be. “You berk, why on earth would I be worried about _that_? What if I seriously hurt you? I would feel terrible!”

“You haven’t, I promise. Just shook me up a bit. Come on, help me up.” He prods Felix to standing and together they haul his sorry arse off the mat. “Let’s try it again, I know what to expect this time.”

Felix puts his hands up and steps away. “No, thank you. Once was an accident, twice is just asking for trouble. And if we go for thirds I might actually kill you.”

“You’re good, Alexius, but not _that_ good.”

Fenris snorts. “Carver knows his own mind. Usually. Come, I’ll show you.”

It’s much faster this time, no waffling—Fenris gets into Carver’s space in a heartbeat and flips him, and this time he rolls with the movement and lands on his knees instead of his side. He sits back on his heels, grinning up at Felix. “See? Sure you don’t want to try again?”

Felix purses his lips, hiding a smile behind a considering look. “All right. Once more, then, since you’re so determined to get your arse handed to you.”

“Silver platters only, please, I have very high standards.”

He stands, brushing himself off, and Felix is suddenly _right there_ , dark eyes gleaming with laughter. He’s much gentler than Fenris, but his hands are quick and clever, and the lithe movement of his body is like the pressure of a lover, moving together under the sheets until the end hits like a freight train.

Somehow, he lands all right. His knee is a bit bruised from the awkward angle, but he’ll survive it—his head is still intact, and that’s all that matters. He’s suddenly incredibly grateful for the loose fit of his joggers. If he’d worn anything skintight to the Club today he would be deeply regretting it right about now.

“Well. That was, ah, an experience.” He rubs his scalp, looking at Fenris with what he hopes is a _help me out here_ sort of expression. “Fen is doing an excellent job, as always.”

Felix grins and bounces a little on the balls of his feet, thankfully oblivious to Carver’s discomfort. “Thank you! He’s really quite good, I’d be a hopeless case but for him.”

“Nonsense.” Fen waves him off. “An excellent teacher is nothing without a pupil who is willing to work. Thank you for stopping in, Hawke, it’s good for him to get a second opinion. Apparently he has trouble believing me when I tell him he’s doing well. Speaking of which,” he nods to Felix, “Good work. Hawke is a sack of potatoes at the best of times, so well done putting him on his arse like he deserves. Do a few stretches, I’ll be back in a moment.” He lifts his hand in a halfway gesture, and Carver follows his lead to the edge of the gym.

“What’s going on?”

Fen props his hands on his hips, which opens up his narrow chest and makes him seem wider, taller; Carver recognizes it as his “confrontation” stance, which he applies very infrequently and only when necessary. In return he lets his shoulders slump a bit and hooks his hands behind his back, waiting. “How are you doing, Hawke? I wanted to check in.”

Carver takes a deep breath. “Good. I’m doing good. I’ve, um, been meeting with Cullen for coffee on Thursday afternoons. It’s very casual, but it’s helping.”

“And work?”

“It’s good. You know, a bit slow right now but we’re looking forward to the summer rush. Blackwall’s been making noises about installing glassblowing furnaces out back—Stroud is skeptical, but I think he’s open to the idea.” He drags his eyes up off the floor to meet Fen’s. “Peaches misses you, you know. She’s got no one to warm the couch for her.”

The corner of Fenris’ mouth curls up in a half-smile. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Anders hasn’t been home very much the past month or so, but now he’s back for good for a while and I think it’s time to make a little distance.”

“Is something going on?”

“…yes and no. Yes, we are… exploring the romantic aspects of our relationship. No, nothing is wrong, per se, if that’s what you were asking.” He rubs his eyebrow thoughtfully. “But our increased proximity is an added layer of stress that neither of us needs right now, and I feel I’ve intruded on his hospitality long enough. Of course, if you aren’t willing or able to accommodate me…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Fen, of course I’m willing. More than. It’s been too quiet without you.”

“Even though you barely notice me when I’m there?” Fenris inquires dryly, but his eyes are sparkling with humor.

“I may not notice you when you’re there, but I definitely notice when you’re _not_. Anyway, the answer is yes—feel free to move back in whenever. And the door finally got fixed, so you won’t have to crowbar your way into the flat anymore.”

“Excellent news indeed. I’m shocked that Stannard actually paid attention to your work orders.”

“Oh, she didn’t,” Carver says cheerfully. “I did it myself, with a little help from Blackwall. But I have copies of all my work orders dating back to six months ago, _with_ her signature saying they’d been received, so if she complains I can just say I got tired of waiting and did it myself, and she should be thankful I’m not making her take it out of my rent for the month.” He glances over at Felix, who is currently bent over with his _very_ well-shaped arse in the air in some sort of yoga pose. He flushes a dull red, turning back to Fenris in a hurry. “Er, should you get back to your lesson?”

“Ah, yes,” Fenris drawls. “I should, shouldn’t I.” He smirks and turns away, arms swinging freely at his sides. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Hawke, I’ll be by sometime this afternoon.”

Carver waves him off and makes his escape, skin still prickling warmly. It’s only a few hours later, when Felix is long gone and he’s packing up to head home, that he remembers the bomber jacket still folded up in his locker. He picks it up and smooths the front placket with a sigh, breathing in chlorine and leather polish.

He is in _so_ much trouble.

///

“I’m sorry sir, your father’s in a very important call right now, he won’t be able to see you for at least another hour. Would you like to reschedule?”

Felix stifles a sigh of disappointment and shakes his head. “Thank you, no. I’ll arrange something another time.” He nods and slips out of the assistant’s office, satchel bumping against his hip as he heads for the elevator. He’s made a habit of visiting his father whenever he picks up his bloodwork, just to go over the numbers together and remind himself that he’s made it another three months without any problems, but sometimes things come up. Still, it’s the third time in a few weeks that Gereon has had to cancel or reschedule a meeting, even a quick one for coffee, and it’s becoming a little discouraging.

He blames his grumpy mood for his snap decision to pick up a treat from the hospital café, and is pleasantly surprised to find Carver Hawke at the back of the line, scrolling through his phone while he waits. Heart beating a little faster—not that he’d ever admit it, not to anyone and least of all to himself—he shrugs his satchel a little higher onto his shoulder and slips in beside him. “Mind if I cut?”

“Get me an éclair,” Carver says without missing a beat. He looks up, grinning at Felix’s surprise. “Otherwise, get behind me like a respectful human being.”

“I think I’ll get the éclair.” He surveys Carver’s face, briefly—the scarring from the car accident is almost gone, only a few flecks of pink still lingering above his brow, and there’s no trace of the black eye and bloody lip he’d sustained that night almost a month ago at the restaurant. “How’s the head? Your concussion, I mean,” he clarifies when Carver only looks confused.

“Oh, I’m not here for that—it’s fine, though, thanks. I’m here for Bethy. She just had her stem cell transfusion.”

“How did it go?”

“Good, we think. She’s napping now, and Mum just ran home to get some errands sorted, so I’ve put myself on snack duty.” He nods to the line ahead of him. “It’s not Harold’s, but it’ll do.”

“Harold’s isn’t that far a walk.”

“I know, but it’s raining.”

Felix laughs. “When is it not? It’s practically spring.”

“Hmph. Still. As lovely as Harold’s is, it’s not worth the walk.” They shuffle forward in line as the next customer is served, shoulders brushing, and Carver scans the glass dessert case. “What are you up to today?”

“Visiting my Dad. Or trying to, but he was too busy so I decided I fancied a cuppa.”

“You’re welcome to join us if you’d like,” Carver offers. “You don’t have to, obviously, but I know Beth would love to see you.”

“Is she well enough for visitors?”

“She’s a bit sleepy and dopey, but she’s lucid. They don’t put you under for the procedure. Bloody nerve-wracking, but she’s had worse.” He puts a hand briefly at the small of Felix’s back, making him jump. “Sorry. You’re up.”

“I’m…? Oh.” He flashes a winning smile at the barista. “I’ll take an éclair, please. And a lemon poppy seed muffin.”

It’s only after he’s paid and collected his little paper bag of pastries that he realizes he never got his cuppa. Oops. He turns to Carver, but he’s in the middle of answering the phone. Carver holds up a finger. “Hey Mum, just a second.” To Felix, “She’s in room 302, I’ll be just a minute.”

Well, he can grab a cup of water upstairs. He tips him a nod and heads back to the elevator.

Room 302 is devoid of visitors when he opens the door, a small single room with a tiny window and a bland-looking potted plant sitting on the sill. Bethany is propped up in the hospital bed, fingers caught up in a red woolen hat that she’s kneading absentmindedly, eyes trailing across the ceiling; when he enters, quietly, she looks at him and her sallow face brightens.

“Felix. Hello.” She clears her throat, voice dry, and he pours her a paper cup of water from the pitcher next to her bed. “Thanks. I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I ran into Carver in the café, and he said you had the transplant today.” After a moment of hesitation, he settles in the plastic chair beside her bed, resting the paper bag neatly on his lap. “How are you feeling?”

“Mmmh. Sort of loopy. I had to be awake for the procedure, but they pumped me full of meds to keep me calm. It sort of worked.” She makes a face, one hand lifting to rub absently at her chest. “It was scary. But it’s over now, hopefully for good.”

“When will you know that it… worked?”

“I mean… never, really. They don’t call it a ‘cure,’ just remission—I’ll be having checkups for the rest of my life, even if there’s never a peep of cancer again.” She sighs and squeezes the hat again, molding it into a soft little ball and letting it unravel again. “But hopefully… hopefully it never comes back.”

“New hat?” he ventures, sensing the fragility of the subject.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, Merrill made it. You’ve met her?” At his nod of affirmation, she smiles and weaves her fingers through the loose knit. “It was very sweet of her. I have more than a dozen by now. I… I was hoping never to have to wear one again, but…” She fingers her scalp, which is freshly shaved to a patchy stubble, and her lower lip wobbles. “I’m sorry, I…”

“Shh, no, don’t apologize. D’you want me to step out?”

“No, don’t leave, please. I mean, unless you want to. I’m—I think it must be the meds, I’m not normally this emotional.” She sniffs and pats her cheeks with her bent wrist. “God, look at me. So stupid, crying over a little bit of hair.”

“It isn’t stupid,” Felix tells her gently. “It just feels like a setback, because it’s so visible. But you’ll have your lovely hair back again in no time, I’m sure.”

Her answering smile is watery, and dissolves rapidly into a short hiccupping sob. “It’s not so much that—it’s just, Carver’s going to come in and see me crying, and he’s going to think something’s wrong—that I’m in pain, or sad, and he—he shouldn’t have to see me like this, I should be stronger than this.”

Felix swallows and leans forward in his chair, capturing her gaze. ”You don’t have to be strong for anyone but yourself, Bethany. And sometimes not even then. I learned that the hard way.” He takes a deep breath, acutely aware of her sky-blue eyes fastened on him. _Am I really doing this? I’m doing this. All right_. “My parents separated when I was a teenager, and Dad always felt guilty about it, like keeping the family together had been his responsibility. And then when I was diagnosed with HIV a few years later in college, he—he thought he was being punished for it. That God, or whoever or whatever, had decided he hadn’t been taking care of me the way he should have been, and so I was going to be taken away from him.”

“He told you this?” Bethany whispers, horrified. 

“No—no, he would never. I overheard a conversation that I shouldn’t have. But I did hear it, and so I felt like it was my job to shield him from the worst of it. And of course he only tried to smother me more and more. He was always after me to make sure I was taking my medication, and we would get into screaming matches because I hated it, hated that he had to watch me fall apart and I couldn’t make him stop _seeing_.” He stops to breathe, shaking a little, and realizes Beth’s soft hand has alighted on the backs of his knuckles. He turns his hand so that their fingers slot together and squeezes gently, a frail connection that somehow bares the bedrock in his voice to give him the strength to press on. “It took me almost a year to let him in, and it was a bad one. I know your situation is different, but... don’t block Carver out. It’s hard, it’s always going to _be_ hard, and he knows that. Trying to hide it is just going to hurt you both.” 

“Thank you,” Bethany says quietly, cheeks dry. “For the advice, and for—telling me what you did. It can’t have been easy, and really you barely know me.” 

Felix half-shrugs. “Not very many people know, it’s true. You just… give me a good feeling, I guess. You seem trustworthy. All the same, I would appreciate if you didn’t…”

“Of course I’ll keep it to myself. There are _some_ things that I can keep secret from Carver, and this is certainly one of them.”

Felix’s scalp prickles with embarrassment. “I didn’t necessarily mean anyone in _particular_ …” 

“Oh, I know. I just meant since he’s my twin.” Is that a wink? Or just a heavy-lidded smile? But then her face gets serious again, and he knows what’s coming next. “Are you… all right? You’re healthy?”

“I’m—yes. I’m fine. More than fine. Thank you.”

She smiles faintly. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He’s saved from finding some kind of answer when the door cracks open and Carver returns, bearing coffee and pastries. Bethany discreetly lets go of his hand and makes a show of pouting over the treats she can’t have; Carver placates get with a juice, and passes Felix a cinnamon rooibos—“Hope this is all right, I didn’t think to ask and there wasn’t time to text by the time I thought of it”—before plopping down in the spare seat with his own cup. “So, what are we talking about?”

Bethany passes Felix a small, knowing smile. “You, of course.”

“What! Not fair, you can’t talk about me while I’m not here.”

“Welllll, we just did,” Beth drawls. “Sorry, baby brother. I’ll take this conversation to the grave.”

“Ugh, grim. It would be much more interesting to just tell me.”

Felix snickers and sits back in his chair. He’s never particularly felt the absence of a sibling in his life, but he’s sure as hell going to enjoy the show while he’s here.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felix's cinnamon rooibos tea is a nod to his favorite tea in earlgreyer's "A Lawyer and an Architect Walk into a Bar," which is fantastic and if you're not reading it you should be!


	12. 12.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two words: GAY PRIDE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note to say I am deeply sorry for how long it has taken me to get this chapter out. I'm very pleased with it, it was just a matter of navigating real life--don't want to go crazy, but a new job and a new schedule have thrown me for a loop so the next few weeks might be off. Hopefully I'll get back to a Sunday update eventually, but for now I appreciate your patience.
> 
> no warnings for this chapter apart from whatever has already come before.

Spring arrives slowly, halfhearted and soaked in long days of warm, steady rain, and one day Carver wakes up and Peaches  is at the windowsill, watching a bird thread stray cotton fluff into her nest on the other side of the glass. He makes kissing sounds at her, and one tufted ear flicks back in his direction. “Oh, I see. How quickly I’m replaced.”

It’s a Sunday, with no studio time logged and no appointments or pressing errands—a rare luxury. For no particular reason, he grabs his phone and texts Felix. _There’s a bird building a nest outside my window_.

He lays on his side in bed and watches for a little while. She flits busily to and fro, laden with twigs or scraps or bits of leaf, and Peaches’ tail swishes lazily against the wall like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. On the mattress, his phone buzzes. _does that mean I can start calling you uncle carver when the babies hatch?_

He snorts. _why do I get the feeling that you go out of your way to draw the least desirable conclusion from everything I say?_

_because I'm an incurably sarcastic twat. Sorry_

Carver reviews his last message. It does sound sort of snippy. He settles back in the pillows and goes about correcting that. _well I'm an incurably grumpy twat, so I guess you're forgiven._ He’s momentarily amused at describing them both as twats when they’re clearly anything but, and then the incoming message distracts him from his juvenile smirk.

_incurably grumpy! On a day like this? it’s finally sunny for the first time in months! Years!_

_maybe only a little bit peeved_ , he allows, ignoring the hyperbole for now. Somebody’s a morning person, and it sure as hell isn’t Carver.

_I bet breakfast would help with that._

Carver stares at the neat little letters, so unassuming laid out side-by-side. Is he asking him out? Or just poking him to get his lazy arse out of bed and actually cook something? Follow-up comes a moment later, loosening the knot in his stomach: _I myself am being regaled with a full spread by my mum, who seems to believe I am incapable of feeding myself._

Not an offer, then. He’s only a little bit disappointed; the day is too fine to succumb to moping. He rolls out of bed, eschewing a shower for clean sweatpants and a ribbed tank, and persuades Peaches to give up the hunt and come get breakfast. He glances at his phone just in time for a picture attachment to come through. It’s of a table, low to the ground, with a bit of Felix’s knee in the corner of the frame. Carver’s stomach rumbles—Felix wasn’t lying. The table is crammed with dishes full of things he barely knows the names of: a plate of naan, misshapen and spotted with char, little puddings studded with nuts and dried fruit, colorful saffron rice, soft-boiled eggs, thin flat-cakes drizzled with syrups, greens and vegetables in a rich brown sauce, a pot of tea, and two fluted glasses brimming with something orangey-gold and topped with fruit. Carver’s stomach rumbles.

Then inspiration strikes. He pulls two eggs from the carton and cracks them into a bowl, then sets it on the counter with a spoon. He captions it with a sad face. A minute or two passes, during which he stops dicking around and slides the eggs into a frypan to cook, and then the response comes: _now you’ve done it_ , accompanied by a picture of a middle-aged woman with Felix’s straight nose and smooth skin—and, oddly, a head full of silver-violet corkscrew curls—her mouth open in mid-rant, apparently telling Felix off for some slight or other. _she’s blaming your lack of nutritional prowess on me, thanks._

 _I don’t know what half of that is, but I want it in me,_ Carver types back, unrepentant. The eggs spit and spatter in the pan, rich with the aroma of brown butter and cracked black pepper, but his palate aches for something stronger and spicier.

_she wants to call you and demand to know how you’re surviving. I’m protecting my phone with my life._

It’s an amusing image, and Carver grins as he types back, _tell her i mainly survive thanks to Mother Hawke. and i’m not scared of your mum, she can call if she really wants to_

 _you can only say that with a straight face because you’ve never met her_ , Felix replies. _she can be quite terrifying._

 _Mothers are like that,_ Carver replies, feeling sagely, and nearly drops his phone when it starts to buzz insistently with an incoming call. “Er. Hello?”

“Young man, what are you eating for breakfast?” The voice on the other end is whip-sharp and burred with the lilting vowels of India, just barely discernable through the crisp upper-crust Brit.

“Eggs, ma’am. Fried. And, uh…” He peers into his fridge belatedly. “Sliced avocado. On toast.”

“Good. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I won’t have you skimping. It’s hard enough to get Felix to sit still for more than coffee in the morning—what? Darling, I’m just having a conversation…”

“ _Mum!_ ” comes down the line, distant and mortified, and then there’s some fumbling and Felix’s voice comes on, a little bit breathless. “Sorry about that—she took you at your word.”

“It’s not a problem,” Carver laughs. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast.”

“Oh, you didn’t. I mean, you did, but I don’t mind. Mum was getting naggy.” He snickers, probably to something his mum said, and there’s a bit of a windy crackle down the line; Carver pictures him moving across a windy balcony to a more secluded alcove, perhaps bowered by wisteria and morning glory just starting to wilt under the sun’s punishing glare… “I was actually meaning to talk to you about something,” Felix says, derailing his romanticized train of thought. “Are you going to Pride?”

Carver winces audibly. “Oh, god, don’t remind me.”

Felix huffs a soft laugh. “Why? Sore subject?”

“Yes, I’m going to Pride. I’m going to be _in_ Pride, in fact. Alistair convinced me to be a part of the float for the Knight Club.”

“What? That’s fantastic!” Felix crows. “I’ll keep an eye out for you. Cullen’s going to be in it, too, I think—Dorian and I are going to be supportive and scream when you roll by. What are you going to be dressed as? I think Cullen’s being a ‘knight-captain’ or something, whatever that’s supposed to look like.”

Carver exhales. “I may or may not have agreed to be a ‘sexy knight,’ or something to that effect.”

“You _what_?”

“Don’t laugh, it’s for a good cause. Or something. It doesn’t require me to do much, at least—Shan’s in charge of costumes, I just have to stand there and look pretty.”

“Hopefully that won’t be too much of a challenge for you,” Felix snarks, and Carver groans, poking at his eggs and determining they’re firm enough to flip.

“Aren’t you a bucket of laughs today.”

“How can I not be? It’s a beautiful day!” Felix exclaims.

“Ugh.” Carver switches off the hob and fetches a knife for his avocado, balancing his phone between his ear and his shoulder to free up both hands. “You’re a morning person, aren’t you.”

“Guilty,” Felix chirps.

“I repeat: ugh.”

“Are you not? Oh, poor thing. If only I’d known. I would’ve made you come over here to be regaled with my mum’s amazing cooking.”

“It does look amazing,” Carver admits, “but I think I’ll be all right. For now.”

“For now,” Felix echoes, laughing. “Well I’ll let you get back to cooking I suppose. Sorry again about Mum.”

“It’s not a problem.”

When he hangs up, he has to rescue his eggs from being overcooked, but all is (mostly) well, if a little too firm for his tastes. As he layers the components into a sort of open-faced sandwich, he makes a mental note to ask Bethy what her plans are. Last year she’d been too sick to even come to Pride, and Carver had been worried and miserable enough that he just hadn’t felt like going, but this year is shaping up to be quite different.

He won’t ever admit it to anyone, least of all Bethy, but he might actually be looking forward to whatever costume Shani has in store.

///

The Knight Club is closed for the “holiday,” technically, but it’s swarming with people anyway. Carver and Bethany navigate their way through the halls to the back, where the float is having the finishing touches put on and the participants are being kitted out in full sexy-medieval regalia. He can’t see Alistair but he can hear him—he’s somewhere near the top of the fake stone tower where Bethany will eventually sit, shouting at Cullen to give him a hammer. Cullen, meanwhile, is running to and fro organizing the people who are already dressed. He’s wearing a chainmail shirt that Carver suspects is real, and skintight leather trousers, a fairly innocuous ensemble that manages to be sexy without being… embarrassing. He begins to feel hopeful about his own prospects.

Shani is sat on the back of the trailer with a massive stage makeup kit, applying blue war paint to a lithe blonde archer—he thinks she’s supposed to be some kind of Robin Hood caricature, but she’s got a great deal more skin on display than the original Robin, surely—but Carver’s line of sight is interrupted by a black-clad assassin that drifts in their direction like a kinky leather-wrapped shadow. He squints. It’s hard to tell with the hood and the ball gag, but is that…?

“Zev! Oh my god you’re here!” Bethany shrieks, throwing herself into his arms. Carver flinches automatically, but Zevran swings her around with utmost gentleness and puts her back down like she’s a delicate glass flower. Carver forces himself to relax. Zev, of all people, knows how to be gentle.

“Of course I’m here, my love,” Zevran croons after spitting out the ball gag, his accent as rich and rolling as Carver remembers it. It sends a little sebaceous thrill through him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, and he rubs his nape reflexively as Zev cups Bethy’s face in his gloved hands. “How could I miss the opportunity to see your dazzling smile in person?” He swings around  and pins Carver down with a sultry look. “He _llo_ , handsome. You’ve grown an inch or two since I saw you last.” He winks, and then there’s a hand snaking around his waist to pinch him on the arse. Carver yelps and Bethy laughs, smacking Zevran’s shoulder. 

“Don’t tease him, Zev.”

“I know, I know. He’s a delicate rosebud. I’m sorry my darling, I shall restrain myself to pining from afar. After all, dear Bethany _is_ my favorite twin…” He sighs, long and lovelorn. “Though who can deny the appeal of both, no? Ah! But I am embarrassing you.” He pinches Carver’s cheek—the one on his face, this time—and kisses Bethany quickly, squeezing them both in a friendly embrace before stepping away. “Such is life. Now come, come, we must get you into your costumes. I must say, Shani has gone above and beyond the call of sexy this year, especially for you, Sir Carver.” He winks and leads the way to the back, and Carver stifles a groan unsuccessfully deep in his chest. 

“Why am I doing this again?”

Bethy grins and links their arms, dragging him bodily to where Shani and Zev are gleefully wreaking havoc in the costume department. Cass is the current victim of their chaos, sitting grumpily on a stool while Shani applies camo-colored body paint to her shoulders and belly. Zevran is busily lacing up the fake leather bustier she’s sporting, and Josie stands nearby, working away on her phone—never really gets a day off, that one—and giggling. 

“You’re stunning, my love, absolutely a picture. I promise.”

“A picture of idiocy,” Cassandra huffs. “None of this ‘armor’ would be practical in a real battle.”

“This is a gay pride parade, darling, not a war. You’re there to smile and look cute.”

“Cute and _deadly_ ,” Shani adds, stepping away to admire her handiwork. “The perfect Amazonian warrior. Are you sure you won’t ride on the back?”

“Completely sure. Someone needs to keep Alistair in line while he’s driving that thing.” She stands and shakes her shoulders out, face as pinched as her ribcage must be—Carver doesn’t think he’s ever seen her with cleavage before. No wonder she looks like a wet cat. Josie steps in and kisses her cheek, leaving a smear of red lipstick behind. 

“Come on, love, let’s see how Ali’s getting on with the float.” 

Cassandra allows herself to be led away, and then it’s Bethany’s turn. She’s a much more willing victim, and in a few minutes she’s transformed into an ethereal, glimmering princess in billowy folds of silver-grey and lavender. Zevran does her makeup—more delicate shades of purple and hazy charcoal, with a dusting of pearlescent powder in her cheekbones and lips—and then she’s done. 

“How do I look?” she says, turning in a circle. Her skirts flare out and float back down slowly like a cloud, and her tiara glitters in her short dark hair like a net of diamonds. Carver bows low.

“Like a queen, my lady.”

“I’m only the princess. Shan is the queen. The bisexual warrior queen,” Bethany grins, accepting a kiss on the head from her cousin. 

“And you’re the lovely ace princess, sole heir to the throne,” Shani declares in dramatic tones. “You absolutely _must_ hold my scepter while we march so I don’t lose the damn thing. Speaking of which—Zev, where’s my scepter?”

“I don’t know, ask your husband. I’m busy putting Carver’s costume together.”

“Oh god.” Carver covers his face with his hands. “I thought Shani was doing my costume, not Zev. I’m doomed.”

“Hush, darling, he did a wonderful job,” Shani soothes, patting his shoulder. “Now strip.”

“Now _what_?”

“Strip! Take off your clothes!” She smacks him around the head a bit, and he starts pulling weakly at the collar of his shirt. “Zev, you have all the pieces?”

“Right here. Take your trousers off too, handsome.”

“Do I have to?”

“For the full effect, absolutely. Don’t worry, your bits will be covered. Mostly.”

Carver groans and opens his eyes. And closes them again. “Nope. No. I’m not doing it.” That isn’t a _costume_ , that’s a few bits of cloth and some metal. And the metal is probably fake.

“Carver _please_ ,” Bethy says, grabbing his arm. “You’re gonna look awesome in this!”

“You really want to see me in my pants?”

“Oh please, I’ve seen you _naked_.”

“Yeah, when we were _three_.” Still, he thumbs open the button and zip on his jeans and kicks them off, glad he wore a niceish pair of black boxer briefs. “Can I put clothes on now? Or whatever that is?”

“Open your eyes, darling,” Zev purrs in his ear. “Let’s get you dressed.”

When the deed is done, Carver stands in front of the flimsy mirror they’ve erected near the loading doors and tries not to cringe. Unlike Cullen, he has no chainmail shirt, sexy or otherwise—he has _nothing_ on top, in fact, except for a single pauldron affixed to his arm by way of a leather strap that lays across his chest. The strap just happens to fall in such a way that his nipples appear to be underlined. The pauldron is real metal, at least, salvaged from one of Alistair’s unfinished cosplay projects. Around his waist is a short chainmail kilt held up with a thick leather belt, and the entire ensemble is capped off with a pair of a heavy boots sporting greaves and a little bit of fake fur around the tops. His feet are going to sweat to death. He sighs.

“It’s too bad you shave,” Shani says, coming up behind him with a paint pot in her hand. “If you had a beard we could really push the barbarian warrior angle.”

“Do I at least get a weapon?” Carver whinges, bending nearly in half to allow her to apply a streak of red paint across his nose, a match for the one she’s got slashed cheekbone to cheekbone like a bloody smile. She smears a few handprints on his chest and abdomen for extra effect, lips pursed thoughtfully.

“There’s a few prop swords in the back of the float. Anything else and you’ll have to ask Ali.”

“I guess that’ll do.” He spreads his arms and turns to Beth, who’s deep in conversation with Zev. “Bethy, what do you think?”

She turns and gives a crow of delight, clapping her hands. “You look fantastic! Oh my god, I love the war paint! Shani, can I have some too?”

“If you must. Amells need to band together.” She dabs some across the bridge of Bethy’s nose, and another blot in the center of her lower lip, Padme Amidala style. “There. All set? We have…” She fishes her phone out of the little leather purse affixed to her belt, the only practical piece of equipment she’s got on. “Fifteen minutes before we need to head to the starting point, so get your finishing touches in order now!”

Carver goes to hunt down a sword, running into Barris and Rue on the way. Both of them are similarly attired as “sexy knights,” although Rue gets the slight dignity of a metal brassiere and a chainmail panel covering her belly. They both crow over Carver’s costume for a while until he gets tired of it and wanders away to find Bethy.

She’s not alone. Carver’s jaw drops. “Fen! I didn’t know you were doing this! What are you _wearing_?”

“A sight more than you, Hawke, or so it appears.” Fenris smirks and stands arms akimbo for inspection.

He doesn’t normally flaunt his tattoos—they’re private, his own way of shaking off the shackles of Dante’s hold on him—but he has no such qualms today. He’s wearing a skintight leather halter top that laces loosely up the front like some kind of kinky corset, exposing the silver-white tendrils that curl down his arms and over his sternum and belly. He’s wearing leather booty-shorts to match, and transparent black tights that expose the tattoos on his legs and bare feet, the lines interrupted only by the leather straps on his legs that hold his fake knives in place. 

“Well? Do I pass muster?”

“You look great,” Carver says glumly. “I just look like a…”

“A hunky piece of man, _caro_!” Zev slaps his shoulder from behind, sending him reeling, and he cackles. “Do you like my fellow assassin? We are quite a dashing pair, are we not?” He slings an arm around Fen’s shoulders, and Carver has to admit they do make a pretty couple, both dark-skinned and flaxen-haired, but Fenris’ sour expression somewhat spoils the effect.

“Very dashing,” Carver says dryly, making Beth choke with laughter. “No Anders today, Fen?”

“He’s on babysitting duty, I believe,” Fenris says, glancing across the room to where Shani and Alistair are bent together going over their to-do list. “He’s taking care of the after-party, though, so he won’t be left out.”

“All right everyone!” Shani hollers suddenly from nearby, making them all jump. “We’re loading up, so grab your place now before we get rolling!”

“Here goes nothing,” Carver sighs, looking down at himself. He hopes no one takes pictures—he doesn’t think he’ll be able to bear his mother’s laughter if she gets wind of this.

///

Felix isn’t used to being around so many people at once. London is a busy city, but this is more than _busy_. People press against him from all sides, laughing and cheering and flailing streamers, and music ebbs and flows as they push their way to the front of the crowd. He sticks close to Dorian—close enough that the people around them probably think they’re a couple, but neither of them are bothered. Dorian hooks their arms together as Felix is jostled and nearly trips, and then they’re standing on the kerb as the vanguard of the parade passes by.

“How far back are they?” he shouts in Dorian’s ear, leaning hard up against him. It’s too hot for such close contact, but he doesn’t want to chance being separated. In all the chaos he’s not sure he’d ever find him again.

“No idea! Cullen told me their number but it was changed the day beforehand and I don’t remember the new one. We’ll just have to keep our eyes peeled.”

Felix glances at the group currently passing by, every inch of bare skin—which is a lot—painted in all colors of the rainbow, and smirks. “Somehow I don’t think they’ll be hard to spot.”

He’s not far wrong. The Knight Club float, when it comes, is sandwiched between a politician that no one cares about and some kind of gay gymnastics group whose flailing streamers and athletic moves are drowned out by the fake castle with its camp, pseudo-medieval soundtrack and the scantily-clad people hanging all over it, dressed only in scraps of chainmail and leather. The only person with most of her bits covered is Bethany, who is probably supposed to be waving serenely from the high tower but is instead waving and screaming and throwing candy with the best of them. Her scepter flails wildly and nearly slips out of her grasp, provoking a comical gasp from the crowd, and she clutches it against her chest and giggles, flushed and happy and a little bit sunburned.

The parade stops there as if by magic to allow the floats to be suitably admired, and Felix tries to (subtly) look for Carver, but it’s a bit difficult to tell bare skin apart. He recognizes Cass in the front seat by her sour expression, and Sera’s hanging off the back shooting fake arrows with little hearts stuck on into crowd. One is shot at Dorian, bouncing harmlessly off his chest, and he wiggles his fingers at her in salute.

Then Bethany catches sight of them from her tower. She shrieks a greeting that is still barely audible above the music and the crowd, nearly jumping up and down in her excitement—another wave of candy is flung down, and he ducks behind Dorian to avoid being pelted in the face.

“I’m not your human shield!” Dorian grouches, but he waves as Cullen pops around the other side of the float and blows him a kiss. “One moment, Felix, he promised me a proper kiss in full costume.”

Their arms detach, and Felix is left adrift on the kerb, chest a bit tight with claustrophobia as Cullen bends down and cups Dorian’s face for a brief kiss. It’s clearly not as showy and disgusting and Dorian was hoping for; he steps back, pouting and smoothing his mustache while the onlookers burst into jeers and mixed applause.

“Oi!” someone shouts. “No civilians in the castle!”

Felix looks, and nearly chokes as Dorian elbows him hard in the ribs. “There’s your knight in shining armor,” he says into his ear. “Or your knight in shining skin, rather.”

Now he knows why he couldn’t spot Carver—he’s almost unrecognizably naked. And not in the way that he was in the showers that one time that Felix still blushes to think about. He’s gleaming with sweat—at least he hopes it’s sweat, although he wouldn’t put it past Shani to oil him up for the occasion—and scantily clad in a way that shows off his powerful thighs and broad chest, and he doesn’t look as miserable as Felix expected. From their conversation on the phone several weeks ago he’d been picturing more of a wet-cat look, but Carver actually seems to be _enjoying_ himself, reveling in the attention. He blows a kiss into the crowd as he comes to stand beside Cullen, both of them pale, muscular Viking demigods, and Felix grabs Dorian’s arm.

“He’s not my knight in anything,” he stammers, and Dorian bursts out laughing.

“That’s one way of putting it."

Any protest Felix might make is interrupted by the appearance of a bronze, flaxen-haired Adonis dressed in leather who promptly drapes himself over Carver and waves his hand over the crowd like a magician. “No civilians, he says! That doesn’t sound like much fun, does it?” he cries. His voice carries over the music, somehow, and it sounds the way eating a decadent chocolate dessert tastes. There’s a small collection of cheering and he tries again: “I think we should invite someone up here for a kiss from Sir Past-in-a-Twist, don’t you?”

Carver blanches a bit, then scowls, but the crowd is relentless. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” someone is chanting, and hands are waving— _pick me, pick me!_ Dorian nudges him again, hard. “Now’s your chance, lover boy,” he says, thankfully drowned out by a young man nearby who seems like he’s ready to faint if he doesn’t get picked, but Felix stays perfectly still, paralyzed between the fear of being chosen and the fear of being passed over. Carver looks similarly blank, like a deer caught in the headlights; he looks around wildly, almost fearfully, and then his eyes land on Felix. In an instant his body seems to calm, and his lids grow heavy, kind of a smirk and a commiserating _oh my god, can you believe this is happening?_ Felix shakes his head, grinning, waves him on. _Go on, pick someone. I dare you._

Carver’s eyes harden with resolve, and he turns and grabs the blond Adonis around the waist, hauling him in for a sloppy, showy kiss. There might be a hint of tongue. Felix wrinkles his nose, but the crowd goes wild. Adonis pulls away with a gratuitously disgusted face as if to say _no barbarians for me, thank you_. He turns around and grabs Cullen by the arm, who’s been watching with a mixture of hilarity and embarrassment, and plants a wet one on his cheek while Carver pretends to pout.

“Hey!” Dorian calls, suddenly outraged. “Get your own, that one’s mine!”

Cullen laughs and drags Dorian up onto the float one-handed. “Kisses only count if it’s someone in the crowd,” he says, and promptly sticks his tongue down Dorian’s throat.

Adonis throws his head back and laughs, voice pealing above the noise like a clear bell. “You heard the man, pick someone else! ” He gestures, and Carver’s eyes fall on Felix like metal to a magnet, direct and inevitable. A mutual shrug— _do you mind? No, do you?—_ and that’s it. Felix is going to kiss Carver Hawke.

A little breathless and dizzy, Felix finds himself being pushed forward by helping hands. Carver’s hand sticks out, a single steady point among the heaving crowd, and Felix grips it like a drowning man gripping a lifeline—when he surges up above the chaos it’s like coming up for air. His feet scrabble briefly against the base of the float and find purchase, and he leans against Carver’s chest for a moment, broad and bare and glistening with sweat. This close he can see how freckled he is, a few darker spots christening his pecs and rippling diaphragm like the points of a constellation. He tears his eyes away, cheeks warm under his tan, and looks up into his eyes.

The noise and clamor narrows down to a dull roar, barely audible over his own heartbeat slamming against his ribs. Carver grins down at him, sheepish and lopsided, and slings an arm around his waist to haul him close. For a split second of terror and elation, Felix thinks he’s really going to do it. Really going to kiss him, lips against lips, here in front of everyone. But then Carver is kissing his cheek, right up against the corner of his mouth, but not quite close enough to be called a proper kiss. He feels the rasp of his beard against Carver’s chin, smells the fragrant maleness of him—sweat, cologne, the grit and heat of London in the summer—and it dizzies him a bit, spinning his head until the only thing he can feel is Carver’s breath, his body, his closeness.

Carver dips him suddenly, breaking the spell. There’s a wave of cheering from the crowd, and Felix laughs a little hysterically, clutching at his bare shoulders. _So close. He was so close to me…_

“Ride the rest of the way with us,” Carver shouts over the cheering of the crowd and the blare of the music as their float picks up again. “I think Dorian and Cullen are glued together, so you might as well.”

“Do I have to take my shirt off?” Felix calls back, laughing as he eyes Carver up and down so blatantly that it’s funny rather than provocative. Carver winks at him.

“Only if you want to.”

/

He doesn’t take his shirt off, even though his ink sort of fits the medieval theme. The griffon on his back is still peeling a bit, and he doesn’t much feel like flaunting it yet.

The rest of the parade passes in a blur, and it feels like an entirely different animal from this side, like he’s looking through a two-way mirror the right way around. When it’s over and Trafalgar Square is flooded with celebration, he feels a bit lost; he sticks close to Bethany, who is content to remain in her princess attire, and decides not to ask where Dorian got to. When he reappears a few minutes later, rumpled and towing a half-naked Cullen behind him, he knows he made the right call.

Most of the Knight Club people have peeled off to do their own thing, but a few have stuck around—Alistair and Shani, Cullen, and Sera, though Sera appears to be eyeing one of the other “sexy knights,”  a Xena-type woman with a ginger pixie cut and a smirk. Cass and Josie are there too, Cassandra now wearing a white tank top and looking more like herself. Her arm is around her wife’s waist and there’s a deep red lipstick print smeared on her cheek, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so relaxed and sparkling before.

“Where’s Carver?” Shani asks suddenly, there’s a bit of a comical flurry of people looking around before they ascertain that he’s nowhere to be seen.

“I think he wandered off with Zev,” Beth volunteers. She’s currently in the middle of detangling her skirts from Shani’s chainmail kilt, which somehow got twisted together, and her eyes fall to Felix. “Could you see if you can find him? Or them? Maybe they went back to the float for something.”

“The float” is parked a short distance away—Felix can see it from here, though it’s rather hard to miss with the great grey turrets sticking out above the milling crowd.       “Sure. Be right back.”

He wonders who “Zev” is as he navigates the crowd, keeping one eye on the castle. He recalls the limber, leather-clad assassin with his flashing white teeth and lilting accent and swallows down a little bubble of jealousy. Their kiss may have involved tongue, but it was clearly fake, a demonstration for a hungry crowd. The kiss Carver had given _Felix_ , while brief, had been sincere… he thinks. Hopes. Dammit.

He has no reason to believe Carver feels anything but friendship for him, and even if there _was_ more between them, the thought of being so open with someone else, so dependent on their laughter and their good opinion, is terrifying. And yet he can’t help the burn of envy to remember that Zev, if he is who Felix thinks he is, knows intimately the taste of Carver’s mouth.

“Stop thinking about it,” he whispers to himself, fetching up against the side of the float. He puts his hand out on the surprisingly fragile outer wall. The gritty edges of the papier-mâché pull him out of his head a little, and he makes himself walk toward the other side of the float in search of Carver.

Voices pull him up short, pitched lower than the vague burble of excitement of the day. He slows his steps and stops altogether as he reaches the front of the castle, ears pricked for more clues.

“Are you capable of being serious for more than two seconds at a time?” Carver’s voice argues suddenly, closer than he expected. Felix jumps a little, waiting for Carver to pop out right behind him and demand an answer, but he’s alone.

“Are you capable of taking that rod out of your arse on occasion?” comes the reply, a light Spanish tenor that sizzles with suppressed tension. The Adonis.

Felix peeks around the edge of the float, but no one’s there—and he realizes, feeling rather stupid, that the voices are coming from _inside_ the float. Of course it’s bloody hollow, it’s made of glue and paper and wood. Carver gives a frustrated growl that carries easily through the thin material, and Felix take a few steps back. He shouldn’t be here, and yet he can’t bring himself to walk away.

“It’s not a _rod_ , Zev, it’s called boundaries. You used to be good at deciphering them, once.”

“Carver.” Zev, whoever he is, sounds gentle, maybe even sympathetic. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have needled you. You know I like to pry into everyone’s romantic business, especially the business of people I care about.”

“Zev…”

“ _About_ , Hawke, not _for_. Don’t get excited. There’s only one person my heart belongs to, as you well know. Or maybe two, but don’t tell Nico.”

“Nico isn’t here, and Izzy’s heart doesn’t belong to anyone—Mare’s finding that out the hard way. Speaking of which, why aren’t you off getting plastered with her? I’m sure it’s a great deal more interesting than babysitting _me_.”

“I’m here because I wanted to make sure you were alright. I didn’t push you into anything, did I? With the… all of that? Back there?”

Carver sighs. He sounds… tired. So tired. Felix aches for him, longs to hold him in his arms and keep him safe, but that’s not his job. “No. It was a little bit of everything, wasn’t it. The excitement. The crowd. It got to my head.”

“Such is the infectious spirit of the day,” Zev says lightly. There’s a pause, and Felix takes another step back. It would be just his luck to be discovered _now_ , just when the conversation is really getting interesting.

“I’m just.” He stops. Whispers, “I’m lonely.” Felix’s heart breaks a little. “God, please don’t tell Fen or Bethy, I couldn’t—they don’t need to know this.”

Zev sighs, blustery as an autumn day. “Why oh why do you insist on burying your heart so deeply, _caro_? They are your friends. They love you. _We_ love you. We want to know that you’re happy and flourishing, and we want to know when you are suffering. That is what friendship is for.”

“I’m not— _suffering_ ,” Carver scoffs, but his protest holds about as much weight as an empty balloon.

“Loneliness can be a kind of suffering. No, don’t pull away from me, _caro_. Stubborn, silly _imbécil_ …” There’s a bit of a stumbling, smudgy sound, body against body, and a whispering sigh. “ _Tonto_ ,” Zev says, equal parts fond and irritated. “You cannot always be running from your heart.”

“I can damn well try,” Carver says, raw and brittle. And silence, punctuated by the soft sound of lips parting and coming together again.

Felix shudders and closes his eyes, feeling like a bucket of ice water has just been dumped over his head. He’s heard enough. Afire with jealousy and a deep, inconsolable ache that tightens around his ribs, he turns around and flees. He doesn’t get very far—at the other end of the float he runs slap-bang into Bethany, now free of her cumbersome outer skirts and a little too slow to call out a warning. They collide with an _oomph_ of surprise and nearly tumble to the ground in a heap, saved only by the grace of the papier-mâché castle.

“Felix!” she exclaims, loud enough that he cringes a little. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were there.”

“I can’t find Carver,” he stammers, and pushes past her. “I’ll look over here.” It’s a flimsy excuse but he has no time for anything better. He leaves her behind, ignoring her half-formed protests, and loses himself in the crowd.

///

The kiss was probably a bad idea. He knows it even as he’s doing it, one hand under Zev’s chin and the other against that stupid fake castle, not pressing him into it, exactly, but penning him in just a little. Zev allows it—and Carver has no doubt that he would make it known if he didn’t want it—but afterward he takes Carver’s hand off his neck and kisses it before pressing him gently back a pace or two. “ _Caro_ ,” he begins, regretfully, and is cut off when Bethy’s voice rises suddenly nearby, echoed by… Felix?

Carver backs away, though there isn’t much room to maneuver in the cramped space inside the castle walls, and levers himself out into the sunlight. It’s so bright he has to blink several times, fireworks popping against his retinas, and when he can see again Bethy is perched on top of the turret looking down at him, lips pursed. He shades his eyes with one hand. “Hullo.”

“Is Zev with you?” she asks, sounding like she knows exactly what she interrupted.

“Yeah, he’s here.” He pulls himself out of the trapdoor and Zevran follows, sleek and unruffled. Carver feels like a wet cat in comparison, grumpy and rumpled; at least he had a chance to change into regular clothes, though he still feels tacky with sweat from the parade. “What’s going on?”

“I just sent Felix to look for you, but he didn’t have any luck,” she says lightly. Too lightly. She’s hacked off about something, and Carver has a horrible, sneaking suspicion of what it might be. “We’re about to get something to eat, did you want to come? Both of you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Carver mumbles. _Did he overhear all of that? Or just the end? God, I’m not sure what’s worse._ “I’m starving.” 

“Great. Everyone’s waiting, so, you know.” She twirls her hand. “Wrap it up.”

When she’s gone again, Carver gives Zev a hand onto the main platform and together they drop down onto the pavement. Still he hesitates, straightening his clothes. Zevran clears his throat. “Does your sister believe we were… up to no good, as it were?”

“Well she wouldn’t be far wrong, would she?” he snaps. “Ugh. I’m sorry, forget any of that happened. I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot, Hawke. Well. You _are_ an idiot.” Zev flicks an apologetic smile his way. “But I can forgive you for that. Most people are.” He reaches out when Carver makes to leave, stopping him in his tracks. “Carver. You know you are always my friend, and I care for you very much. But I cannot be what you need. Not this time.” 

“I don’t need—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Zevran croons. “I’m sorry, _caro_ , but that lie won’t work on me twice. You are softer inside than you think. Let yourself need. It won’t kill you—probably.” He winks and gives his arm a squeeze before retreating, hips swaying as he whistles some lilting tune Carver doesn’t recognize. He sighs and rubs his face with his hands. Maybe it’s time for a stiff drink. 

Or maybe he should go find Felix and apologize. For what he’s not sure, but the least he could do is explain himself. He watches Zevran go and scans the crowd. Felix is nowhere to be seen. “Drink first,” he tells himself, suddenly parched for an ice-cold beer. “Then apology.” Thus decided, he shoulders his way into the crowd.

///

Felix wanders aimlessly for a while, not really paying attention to where he’s going. A few eyes follow him, but he doesn’t notice, too intent on putting some distance between himself and what he’d heard; he needs to feel anonymous, needs to blend in with his ink bared and the little bi pride flags Dorian had insisted on painting on his cheeks. Just another speck of color floating in the rainbow spread out across the square.

He finds his way back mostly by accident. The walk has cleared his head, and everything he’s heard has been packed away in a box to be looked at later, if he chooses—for now he is determined to enjoy the day. After all, it’s a beautiful one. The air is balmy against his skin and his lungs are clear and free as two balloons, and up ahead, near where the Knight Club float lists like a great grey ship over the multicolored crowd, the others have set up camp on a couple of blankets and are tucking into a variety of terrible carnival-style food. Felix’s stomach rumbles and he picks up the pace, skirting a group of giggling young women—whom Sera has inserted herself into effortlessly—and nearly bumps into someone with a camera bag.

“Sorry mate,” he says automatically, making to press by.

“Felix Alexius?”

He hesitates, his sincere smile of apology quickly fading when he doesn’t recognize the other man—dark skin, startlingly light eyes (probably contact lenses), overly styled hair… His eyes drop to the press badge clipped to his jeans and he takes a step back. “Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry to intrude, I just thought I recognized you and wondered if I could ask a few questions?” the bloke chirps, smiling at him like he’s a snack about to be devoured. “You’re here for Pride, yeah? Are you here or as a supporter or as a member of the queer community? I didn’t realize you were gay.”

Good lord, he’s already got his notepad out and is scribbling away. Felix clenches his fists, resisting the urge to knock it out of his hand. “Sorry, who are you? And why the hell are you asking me any of this?”

“Call me Lucky,” the boy says, flashing a smile that’s too full of teeth to be alluring. He edges a little closer, ostensibly to get out of someone’s way, and Felix lifts his chin instead of retreating. “You kind of dropped off the face of the planet for a while there, but people are still interested—your dad is still a hero. He’s probably supportive, yeah? What was it like coming out to him?”

It hits him suddenly what’s happening. Almost two years later and people _still_ want to poke into his life like his family connections make him worth their greedy, grasping time? Fear and rage clog his throat, making it difficult to speak, but he manages to grit out, “I won’t be answering any of your questions today, thank you,” which is far more polite than he feels. Far more polite than this bloke deserves. He pushes past him and almost expects to feel a hand around his elbow—but “Lucky” has some manners, at least, and doesn’t grab him, just follows on his heels, rattling off more questions.

“Just a few hints? It would really be a boost to the gay community to see such a high-profile person publically admitting—”

“Admitting?” He whirls around, skin sparking with anger. “It’s not _admitting_ unless there’s a problem with it. Are you implying the Daily Mail is homophobic?”

Those fake blue eyes widen improbably and he holds up his notepad like a shield. “Not at all! I’m gay myself, I volunteered for this job. I just wanted an inside scoop on—”

“On what?” Felix interrupts. “On the private life of someone the public doesn’t give a flying fuck about anymore?” _Please, god, let them not give a flying fuck about me anymore. I can’t go through that again._

“But the public _does_ care,” Lucky wheedles, edging close again. “I’m not asking for _personal_ details, I just…” He glances down, showing off long black lashes and a full pout that might have ensnared another man with fewer relationship issues. “I just would really love to learn more about someone in the community who’s really making a difference.”

“Excuse me.” A new voice enters the fray, this one blessedly familiar; Carver lurks into place at Felix’s elbow, no longer a knight in skimpy armor, but dressed in slim jeans and an understated floral shirt that Felix, for a moment, longs to bury his face into. He resists, barely.

“Are you his boyfriend?” Lucky twitters, suddenly doe-eyed and innocent. Felix longs to punch him.

“Who wants to know?” Carver asks belligerently.

The reporter—and Felix uses the term loosely—turns on Carver like a shark scenting blood and starts writing furiously. “Luke Castillon, but most people call me Lucky. I’m with the Daily Mail—d’you think I could get a photograph?”

“I think you can get lost,” Carver says, getting into his space. Compared to Carver, Lucky is a weedy scrap of an adolescent, probably an intern hoping for his big break. Felix would feel sorry for him, but his private life is not for sale.

“But I just wanted to—”

“I said no,” Felix interrupts, a little braver with Carver at his back. He knows he’s in no danger from Lucky physically (and even if he were, he has the skills now to get rid of him, thanks to Fenris), but the threat of press attention has him clammy and faintly trembling like a cold wind has just blown through, and the anxiety is turning his belly to water. “Leave me alone, or I’ll get rid of you myself.”

He knows that without Carver there, Lucky might not have taken the threat seriously, but one look between the two of them and he’s babbling useless apologies and backing away. A few nearby onlookers turn away from the scene and pick up their conversations again like they hadn’t been eavesdropping the entire time, and Felix sags a little.

“Hey.” Carver hasn’t moved away—there’s still space between them, but it’s not much, and Felix can feel the warmth of his closeness like a brick wall at his back. “All right?”

“Not sure,” he confesses. He looks down at his hands, and they’re shaking. “I think the crowd is getting to me.”

“C’mon,” Carver says, backing away. He doesn’t touch Felix, but the slight smile around his mouth is invitation enough. “I know a place, if you want to take a break.”

“Is it far?” Felix wants to know.

“Nope. Less than thirty seconds, tops.”

Baffled, Felix trails after him. They pass the little Knight Club group, waving as they go by—Dorian gives him a knowing look, but he ignores it. After the little _conversation_ he overheard, he doubts Carver has anything scandalous in mind.

All is made clear when Carver boosts him up onto the float and ushers him into a little crawlspace under the central tower. It’s not very tall, but there’s enough room for them to sit comfortably cross-legged without sitting in each other’s laps—not that he would have minded too much. He looks around at the light filtering dimly through and realizes that this is where Carver and Zev had been sitting when he overheard their conversation barely half an hour ago. He inhales shakily, wondering what he’d missed by running away, but there’s no evidence of… _shenanigans_ of any kind. Not that he can tell. Not that he cares. _Liar._

“Sorry it’s stuffy,” Carver says, and the sun _is_ beating down on them, but it’s better than being swarmed by a million bug-eyed reporters digging for the latest dirty secrets.

“It’s fine. Thanks.” He rubs his face briefly and sighs, letting his head tip back against the thin shell of the inner wall. “I appreciate you showing up.”

“You could have taken him,” Carver says with a grin. “But it’s nice to have backup. Better to avoid bloodshed, I think, though I wouldn’t have minded helping you take him out.”

Felix snorts. “ _Now_ you sound like a knight.”

“A sexy knight?”

“A regular one, you idiot.” He nudges Carver’s ankle with his own, teasing, and Carver snickers. “But very well done on the float, I was impressed. I wouldn’t have been able to stand up there in front of all those people waving my bits about.”

“My bits were covered, thank you. I had pants on underneath.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

Carver shakes his head, and his smile fades. “What was that all about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The ‘reporter,’ you mean? That was… an unfortunate vestige of my father’s rise to fame. When he saved the Prime Minister’s life, suddenly everyone wanted to be his friend. We were both thrust into the spotlight for a while. He flourished—he loved the attention, at least at first, and it meant he got a ton of funding and support for his work and for Redcliffe. There’s an Alexius Wing in the hospital and everything, and there’s been some noise about naming the new Cardiology building after him. Maybe that’s why that Daily Mail bloke was after me.” He rubs his nose, fighting back the waves of anxiety threatening to roll through him. “It was weird, back then. A few months of fame coming at me right out of an entire year spent in and out of hospital for… for invasive lung procedures, and I wasn’t really prepared for it. So to have them suddenly interested again is… alarming.” He blows out a quick breath and forces a smile. “Which is why I’m glad we’re getting out of the city for a while. Put some distance between me and… all that.”

“The camping trip, you mean?” Carver inquires.

“Yes. You’re coming, aren’t you? Cull said he invited you ages ago.”

“Yeah, I’m in. Fenris too—not entirely sure about Anders.” He grimaces. “I’m not sure whether it’s a brilliant idea or a terrible one to put them in one tent together, but I’m not volunteering to join them.”

“I suspect we’ll be bunking together,” Felix laughs, trying to pretend the thought isn’t simultaneously wonderful and terrible. Sleeping so near to Carver, hearing his breath—does he snore?—giggling together in the dark like schoolboys after lights out… “Hopefully that won’t be an issue.”

“Why would it be an issue?” Carver asks bluntly. His mouth is still smiling, but his eyes are serious. “Listen—about what you overheard…”

A black hole seems to suck away all the tentative camaraderie Felix has managed to cultivate, and he clasps his hands together tightly in his lap. “I didn’t hear anything. Much. I mean—it was an accident.” He’s blushing now, dammit; hopefully the dim lighting is enough to hide that fact.

“It’s fine. Um.” Carver scratches the back of his head, looking just as awkward as Felix feels, which is some small consolation. “Zev’s a good friend, an old friend, back from when we first moved to London. He lives in Spain now with his boyfriend, but he visits occasionally. Like now. I… think you’d like him.”

“He seems…” Felix hesitates. “Flamboyant.”

Carver barks a laugh, breaking the ice. “He is that. He’s pan, and proud of it.”

“Is he poly?” Felix ventures boldly—too boldly, he thinks, but Carver doesn’t seem offended.

“Yeah. He’s in a closed relationship at the moment, but he’s always carried a bit of a longstanding mutual flame with Isabela—sorry, you don’t know who that is. My older sister’s on-again off-again girlfriend.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It is.” He winces. “And I might have just made it even more so. “

“By kissing him, you mean.” God, where is this coming from? He’s suddenly utterly calm, like the first moments of a training session when he centers himself, feeling the pulse of his own body and casting off outside distraction. He looks down, and his hands are no longer shaking.

Carver is definitely blushing now, pale skin hiding nothing. “Yeah. I mean, he’ll shake it off, no problem.”

“But you won’t?”

“I… I don’t know. It was stupid. He’s in a committed relationship, and I don’t even—I don’t like him like that, we slept together a few times when I was first figuring stuff out but it was a friends-with-benefits kind of thing. And even if I were interested, I can’t… now isn’t a good time. To get involved, I mean. I can’t even imagine trying to—with Bethy and everything, we’re still waiting for the next round of tests, and that’s never going to be over, not really. I can’t think about having any kind of love life, it’s too much mental strain.” He waves his hand a bit manically. “That’s what he was yelling at me about, sort of. He seems to think finding someone will help me loosen up, unwind, but…”

“Carv.” The nickname is sort of accidental—the second syllable catches in his throat and dies—but it sounds right anyway. “You don’t have to explain. I know exactly what you mean.” As disappointing as it is, it’s also a relief. _Neither of us are ready for this. So start with this: just be his friend_. He reaches out, hand open, and Carver takes it bemusedly. “I’m hungry. Want to grab something to eat?”

Carver’s fingers tighten around his, and he smiles. “I’d love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first part of this chapter ages ago so I could no longer tell you what Felix's mum made for breakfast. I googled images of Indian breakfasts and just described what I saw, which is about as much knowledge as Carver has at this point. Disclaimer: I've never been to London Pride, sadly, so I kept the details brief and just worked in what I know of the ones I've been to in the States. Any errors are my bad, and I'm happy to fix them if anyone feels like pointing them out. 
> 
> also, re: Fen's tattoos: in this 'verse, they're his own personal project expressing his freedom from an abusive/toxic relationship (Dante), not something forced on him like in canon.
> 
> also also (forgot to mention this before): Nico won't be making an actual appearance probably, but he belongs to the lovely earlgreyer1 in her series 'House of Crows.'
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! For more fever flailing, chapter updates, snippets, OTP memes, et cetera, follow me on [tumblr](http://erebones.tumblr.com)!


	13. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the gang goes camping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real warnings for this chapter! Finally back on a Sunday schedule, let's see if I can stick with it ;)

“Ow! Watch it!”

“I _am_ watching it! You make sure you look where you’re going, genius!”

Carver coughs a laugh into his sleeve and turns away from the scene. Watching Felix and Dorian run into each other with tent poles is too painfully amusing to watch. “No offense,” he says to Cullen, who is rummaging in his hatchback for something, “but I just don’t see Dorian as the camping type.” Or Felix either, really, but at least he’s got a boyish enthusiasm for everything, even if he has no idea what he’s doing. Dorian is just… lost.

From the tent area there comes a clatter and a storm of cursing. Cullen straightens up from the hatchback and sighs without turning around. “Tell me. How bad is it?”

“Um… I think Felix snapped a cord, one of the tent poles is lying everywhere in pieces.”

“That’s why I brought extra.” He disappears into hatchback and returns with another canvas bag full of tent poles. “Do you want to supervise?”

“I think someone had better.” Resigning himself to his fate—at this point he would probably get everything set up just fine on his own, but Felix and Dorian have to learn _somehow_ —he ambles over to where Felix is scrambling around trying to fit the poles back together. He sees Carver coming and blanches.

“It’s fine! I’ve got it, I’ll just tie them back together.”

“Felix, stop. It’s over. There’s no point.” He snickers at Felix’s wounded look. “Just put them back in the bag and we’ll fix them later. Here, I brought new ones.” He hefts his burden and slides the folded-up poles out onto the ground. “Now watch, so next time you don’t fuck it up.”

The first tent has been successfully set up and they’re working on the second—Carver barking orders like a drill sergeant while Dorian and Felix fumble about and grumble when they think he can’t hear—when Anders and Fenris return from their firewood expedition. Carver eyes them suspiciously. Fen has a bit of leaf in his hair, but that could be from anything. They certainly found enough deadfall to get a good-sized fire going, so if they were off being irresponsible at least they got _some_ work done.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Fenris mutters when he’s dumped his load and has come to offer assistance. “We’re not fucking against every tree, you know.”

“I just want to be prepared,” Carver answers sweetly. “If I have to be dragged awake at two in the morning it had better be from bears or raccoons or something, not you two in the next tent going at it.”

For answer, Fenris chucks a piece of wood at him. He ducks, but it still bounces off his shoulder and goes rolling. “Ouch! That was hard,” he whinges, even as the carpenter in him perks up and goes to rescue it from underneath the hatchback.

“Isn’t that wood’s ideal state?” Cullen asks lightly, but he’s so deeply buried in their cookstove supplies that Carver is the only one that hears him. He cackles and grabs the chunk of wood, almost hitting his head on the car’s undercarriage as he backs out.

“I heard that,” he says, and hefts the little piece in his hand. It’s a little bigger than his closed fist, with a knot in one side and a few scraps of bark still clinging to it. Oak, probably broken off from a fallen limb and aged somewhere until it was nice and seasoned. It would be good piece to help get a fire going, but he thinks he’ll keep this one, just in case his hands start to itch. He thinks of the whittling kit he’s got stashed in his pack, and puts the wood into his pocket for later.

The little piece of land they’ve staked as their own belongs to Cullen’s family. Much like the Amells’ once-grand empire of farmland, the Rutherford clan has passed parcels of it back and forth from family unit to family unit over the years, and the piece they stand on now is a few lush acres in the middle of the Lake District, tucked away from the worst of the tourism. There’s some evidence of hiking and backpacking in the area, but it’s deserted for now, a little packed-earth hollow near the edge of a small lake that promises misty morning vistas and plenty of opportunity for swimming and fishing.

No longer occupied with tents and hopelessly bumbling city boys, Carver wanders to the water’s edge while the others bicker happily over where to build a campfire. The water is warm in the shallows, and he tips his bare toes in, watching the little ripples fan out into the wider riffles kicked up by the breeze. It smells impossibly clean here, so different from daily life in London; it’s quiet, too, in spite of the chatter behind him and the murmuring woods all around. If he closes his eyes for a moment he’s back in Canada, his siblings twittering away and his father whistling in the back yard, the dog bounding along at their heels.

As if sensing his thoughts, there comes a soft nudge against his calf. He looks down. Mayberry, Cullen’s golden retriever, looks back up at him with soulful eyes. He bends nearly in half to stroke her soft ears. “Hey there, pretty lady,” he says, and her tail thwaps against the ground. “You’re so well-behaved, aren’t you? Good girl.” _Thump, thump, thump_. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth and her eyes dart quickly to the water and back again. Carver grins. “Hey Cullen, I think Mabs wants to go for a swim.”

“Chuck a stick into the water if you want, I don’t mind if she gets wet,” Cullen calls back.

“She’d better not be sleeping in the tent with us tonight,” comes Dorian’s irritable mutter.

Carver scans the shoreline and finds a suitable stick—he could throw the chunk of wood he’s still carrying in his pocket, but he’d rather keep it. As soon as he picks up the stick, Mabs’ eyes are on it as if magnetized. “D’you want it? Do you play fetch?” He wiggles it a bit, enticing, and flings it out into the water.

As soon as it leaves his hand Mabs has launched herself into the lake and is churning out after it like a creaky old paddleboat. She finds the stick without much trouble, but her front paws are pinwheeling so energetically that the stick gets pushed farther and farther away until she can finally get it into her mouth. Successful at last, she turns tail and splashes all the way back to shore, grinning around her prize.

“I thought goldens were supposed to be good swimmers,” Carver says when he sees Cullen come to stand beside him.

“She’s learning,” Cullen says indulgently. “She doesn’t get a lot of opportunity to swim in town.” He bends over and puts his hands on his knees as Mabs erupts from the shallows like a miniature furry water deity, stick held like a prize in her jaws. She’s quite dainty for a golden retriever, made even more apparent with the water plastering her fluffy golden fur to her body, and after shaking herself dry—an involved process that mists Carver’s face and forearms in a light spray of lakewater—she prances up to her master with delicate steps and sits, tail wagging. “Good girl,” Cullen praises, taking one end of the stick. “Let go.”

Mabs doesn’t. Her eyes dart between him and Carver, and her tail wags faintly, but she doesn’t release her quarry.

“Mabs. Let go of it.”

She whines, tail thumping harder, and when she looks again at Carver he gets down on his haunches and holds out his hand. “Drop it, sweetheart.”

The stick clatters to the ground and she prances backward, already ready for another go. Cullen snorts. “Traitor.”

“Well-trained,” Carver corrects. “She knows who threw the stick and wanted to bring it back to me, that’s pretty impressive. How old is she?”

“Two years and a bit. Got her when she was a puppy—Dorian had a bit of a crisis and then fell in love with her immediately.”

“A crisis?” Carver laughs. “What do you mean?”

“Rutherford!” Dorian hollers from across the campsite. “What are you telling him?”

“Nothing, dear!” Cullen calls back. “Just your reaction to me bringing Mayberry home.”

“Oh god, that. Fine, I suppose you can tell it. I’ll just be over here consoling myself with… ugh… whatever this piss in a can is that you brought.” He’s pulling a can of beer out of the cooler, nose wrinkled in distaste. “Didn’t you bring any wine?”

“We’re camping, Dorian,” Felix tells him. He’s already ensconced himself in a foldup chair with a book, glasses perched on his nose, and Carver’s heart gives a little optimistic twinge. “Who on earth brings _wine_ to the woods unless it’s trashy singles of white zin?”

Cullen snorts and turns away hands in his pockets. “ _Anyway_. Dorian and I had been together for three years by then, and seriously dating for two. I’d been wanting a dog for a while and an old friend had just had a new litter, so I went one day when they were old enough and put down a deposit. I could have sworn I mentioned it to him, but he swears I _didn’t_ , but the point is moot. The day came to pick her up, and when I brought her to my flat, Dorian completely lost it. Thought I was trying to replace him or something, asked if he wasn’t good enough for me anymore. Like by bringing a puppy home I was cheating on him. Drama queen that he is, he stormed out and I was left there with Mabs wondering what on earth I was supposed to do.”

“What _did_ you do?” Carver wonders, having a hard time connecting this fragile image of a tempestuous relationship with the rock-steady rapport he sees now.

“Won him back, of course,” Cullen says with a grin. “In the end it was just a case of bad timing. He’d been in the middle of wrangling over getting his tenure at Calenhad, grading a million papers, all that university politics stuff—we hadn’t been able to see very much of each other, and he had actually just dropped by my place on a whim with roses and wine in hopes of a brief moment away from the madness, and there I was coming home with a dog and no word of warning at all, or so he claims. I have no doubt I told him, he just forgot in the onslaught of grading season.” Cullen smiles ruefully and bends to ruffle Mabs’ damp ears. “I explained myself, apologized, and once the worst of his work-related stress had blown over he allowed himself to be wooed by her wily ways.”

As if sensing they’re discussing her, Mabs bounces a little on her front paws and gives a yip of excitement. Cullen unhooks her collar—“To keep it from getting wet”—and claps Carver on the back. “Feel free to keep playing with her, it’ll wear her out after being cooped up in the car all day. I’m going to get dinner started.”

“Sure. Let me know if you need help.”

“I think I’ve got it sorted, but I’ll let you know.” Cullen smiles and returns to the center of camp to begin dinner preparations, dropping a kiss on Dorian’s cheek as he goes. Dorian harrumphs but smiles behind his sunhat, and Carver turns back to the lake.

///

Felix has done the whole “camping” thing before. Almost since Cullen and Dorian started dating, they were both pulled into the annual Rutherford clan road trips, and while schedules have gotten harder and harder to coordinate over the years, the three of them and sometimes Bran or Rosie will make the time to get away for a long weekend. This year is… very different. Instead of the three of them there are six, Carver and Anders and Fenris tagging along for the ride, which required two vehicles and a lot more gear. Luckily Cullen isn’t the only backwater farm boy between them, and Carver was able to contribute some of his own supplies to the cause of ‘roughing it.’

He still isn’t quite sure why Dorian puts up with it. Love is one thing—and Dorian and Cullen are definitely in love; deeply, soppily, head over heels in love—but Dorian is very much a city man, bred for the paved streets and glass walls and expensive salons. His only pair of practical walking shoes live in his closet for most of the year, pulled out for their annual summer road trip to the Lakes. In the wilderness he is out of place, swimming in bug spray and sun lotion, preferring to spend his time reading on the shore while the rest of them go bushwhacking or visit the old foundations of the original Rutherford settlement just a twenty-minute walk from their campsite.

Felix is a city boy, too, he’ll be the first to admit, but he doesn’t mind a little rough and tumble now and then. The first year he came was the year after his initial diagnosis, and he can remember falling in love with the wild land and the open skies like it was yesterday. And while he loves Dorian and Cullen dearly, it’s nice to have other people along that aren’t completely absorbed in one another. Anders and Fenris are both quieter about their relationship, quiet enough that he would have thought they were just close friends if Carver hadn’t teased them about disappearing to fuck against a tree somewhere.

And then, of course, there’s Carver. Carver who is weirdly relaxed and loose-limbed out here in the woods, moving like he’s more accustomed to uneven ground than pavement, just at home here as he appears in his woodshop. He and Cullen have slid into an easy camaraderie over things like chopping wood and building fires, and Felix still remembers the longsuffering but amused way he’d come over earlier to help with the tents.

The tents. He doesn’t remember it until late, when they’re around the campfire trading inappropriate details of their sexual histories and laughing hard enough to snort their beer, and he thinks idly about changing into his pyjamas so he won’t have to later. Across the fire, Carver is grinning at some smart remark Fenris has just made than Felix didn’t hear, and he remembers suddenly that they’ll be sharing a tent tonight. It’s not a very _small_ tent, but it’s smaller than the average bedroom, and the thought of sleeping in such close proximity to him is… complicated.

“Heya. Earth to Felix.” Dorian kicks his foot gently, smile lit golden by the firelight. “Falling asleep?”

“I’m awake!” Felix protests, though his body is telling him otherwise. He’s had three beers, he thinks, and the sluggish quality of his limbs and the heavy feeling in his chest tells him it’s almost time for bed. But he doesn’t _want_ to go to bed. Overhead the trees part to reveal the starry sky, and down below the fire and a blanket around his shoulders keep him toasty warm while his friends laugh and trade increasingly ridiculous stories. He isn’t quite ready yet to leave that behind.

“Your turn,” Carver prompts him. “Weirdest sex dream you’ve ever had about someone you know. Someone you _haven’t_ been in a relationship with.”

Felix’s brain rockets awake but his body is slower to catch up. “ _What_? What kind of question is that? How did I miss all your answers?”

“Technically none of us have answered yet,” Cullen says magnanimously, with the air of someone who knows they’re extremely drunk and is trying—poorly—to hide it. “Maybe we should make someone else go first.”

“Oh! I’ll go!” Anders volunteers. He’s well past tipsy, too, but he bleeds into the absurdity of it like he’s accustomed to being drunk, while Cullen just gets stiffer and less natural. “I’ll bet Cullen’s answer is the same one.”

Carver covers his face with one hand. “If this is about Shani I don’t want to know.”

“It’s not about Shani,” Anders says tartly. “Shani doesn’t count, because I’ve actually slept with her.”

“What did I _just say_ about not wanting to know!”

Felix giggles along with the others as Anders waves him off. “ _Anyway_. Weirdest sex dream I’ve ever had… was definitely the time I had a dream about Alistair.”

“ _WHAT_?” bursts from everyone simultaneously, then more laughter, scattering like sparks flaring up from the fire. Carver looks torn between fascinated and horrified, and he meets Felix’s eyes across the fire as he takes a long draught of his beer as if to say _what have I gotten myself into_?

“It was only weird because it was right after I’d donated my, ahem,” he clears his throat politely, “and so when I woke up I felt like I could never look either of them in the face again. Of course, with consciousness comes reason, and I soon got over that—we can’t help our dreams, after all. I have no doubt it was my subconscious twisting up my history with Shan and my friendship with Alistair and getting it all confused.” He waves his hand dismissively and sits back in his chair. “Carver’s turn now, I think, since he was so keen on putting poor Felix on the spot.”

Carver harrumphs but leans forward, beer can held between his thighs. “All right. Let me think a moment. Weirdest sex dream… I’m sorry, I can’t lie, it was Fenris.”

“Oh god,” Fenris mutters, already cackling silently into his beer. “Don’t tell me. Please, I beg of you.”

“I don’t remember the details!” Carver hastens to assure everyone. “It was very fuzzy. Not like—dammit, Anders, stop laughing. Shouldn’t you be offended by this?”

Anders spreads his hands. “Like I said, you can’t help your dreams. The subconscious is a bizarre place.”

“Okay, Fee, your turn,” Carver says. “Please, take the shame away from me.”

“You’re the one who came up with the question,” Dorian points out. “You should have known you’d have to answer sooner or later.”

Felix grimaces and tries not to think too long about Spain. About a dark rooftop at night, touching himself while he thought of dark freckles on pale skin and the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. He honestly can’t remember the last time he had a sex dream featuring someone he knew, someone he wasn’t involved with at least, but he can’t say so; they’ll think he’s copping out. So he makes it up. “Qarina.”

“Qarina Adaar?” Anders clarifies, sounding fascinated. Fenris elbows him. “What? She’s stupidly tall, it must have been quite an experience.”

“It was a dream,” Felix reminds him dryly. “And it was a long time ago. I couldn’t even tell you if I enjoyed myself.”

“Boring,” Dorian decides. “ _I_ had a sex dream about Gereon once, that was a terrifying experience.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Felix chokes, to a storm of laughter, underscored by Carver’s slowly dawning horror as Cullen leans across to tell him who Gereon is. “New question! That one is terrible, Carver, I’m sorry, I’m vetoing it. I don’t want to hear whatever Dorian has to say.”

“Neither do I,” Cullen decides. “New question!”

“All right, all right. What next?”

“Ohhhh god, let me see. All right. Most inappropriate place you’ve had sex.”

This one is a little more palatable. Felix throws out a true answer for this one—in a park late at night on the way back to the dorms—and Carver sheepishly confesses to his older sister’s bed. Dorian, however, rakes in the prize with the confessional of a church where the bloke he’d been seeing was a choirboy.

“Always had a soft spot for the goody-two-shoes,” he drawls with a wink and a kiss to Cullen’s cheek. Cullen grumbles but allows it, and their mushy antics are almost enough that Felix doesn’t realize what’s going on across the fire. Carver is snickering into his beer, but next to him Fenris has his hand in Anders’ lap and Anders is sunk low in his chair, face flushed and eyes unfocused somewhere in the trees. Felix blushes and looks away. Don’t they know they’re in public?

“I think I’m for bed,” Carver says suddenly. He stretches until the chair creaks, and when Felix looks again, Fenris’ hand is curled innocently in his own lap. “Enjoy your perverted stories, I’ll expect a full report in the morning.”

“I’ll come too, I think,” Felix says. “But I’ll wait for you to change.”

Carver shrugs. “I don’t mind.” He ruffles Fen’s hair as he passes, making the other man’s mouth pucker like a sour lemon, and disappears into his tent. _Their_ tent. Oh dear.

He waits about five minutes, he thinks, and is dozing off when Dorian nudges his foot again. “Just go,” he says, low enough that he won’t be heard over the conversation Cullen is having with Fenris about something or other. Knight Club things, it sounds like. “He’ll be fast asleep inside his sleeping bag by now, you’ll be able to change in private.”

“That’s not…” He stops. Dorian lifts his eyebrows.

“Not what?”

“Nevermind. Um. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Sleep well,” Dorian says, smiling, muzzy with drink and lassitude.

Felix is blushing a little bit as he unzips the tent and stumbles inside, a little louder than he’d like. The warmth of the fire still suffuses him, warming his limbs and softening them like taffy as he pulls at his clothes and tries not to look at Carver’s side of the tent. They’ve already set up their bags and air mattresses—Carver had scoffed at them, but Felix and Dorian point-blank refused to sleep on the ground, so he ended up succumbing as well—and he gets himself settled as quietly as he can.

When he’s lying there on his back, semi-comfortable and sleepy enough that it doesn’t really matter, he breathes in the smell of woods and wet and vinyl, and glances over to Carver. He’s nothing more than a shadowy lump on the other side of the tent, though as his eyes adjust to the dark he can make out Carver’s limbs, pale and bare against his unzipped sleeping bag. He’s not snoring, really, but his breaths are deep and slow, whuffing against the pillow with metronomic regularity. Felix lets his eyes fall shut. Sooner than he would have thought possible, they lull him to sleep.

He’s pulled awake with a sudden jerk sometime well after midnight. Overhead, the trees splash quiescent shadows against the roof of the tent, sharply defined by the silver moonlight streaming down. The woods are quiet, apart from the rustling of the breeze and the occasional churr or trill as the nocturnal creatures go about their business. 

Then the sound comes, so familiar he knows it must have been the thing that woke him—a long, drawn-out moan, made eerie by the darkness and the late hour, more like a ghost than a man. The part of him that’s still sleep-fogged and credulous burrows a little deeper in his sleeping bag. The moan comes again, accompanied by suspicious rustling. 

“Are you fucking serious,” Carver says, making Felix jump. On the other side of the tent, he sits up and scrubs at his hair, silhouetted muzzily against the tent wall. “I _told_ them to keep it down, Jesus.”

“I think you meant to say ‘seriously fucking,’” Felix corrects.

From the other side of the tent comes silence. Then a snort, which turns into a snicker, and then a full-throated giggle. “Yeah, okay, that was well played.”

Felix grins at the tent ceiling. “Should we yell at them?”

“Ughhh. No, I guess not. What’s the point? Let them have their fun.” He shifts, sleeping bag rustling, and in the weird twilit dark Felix can see him getting up and pulling a hoodie over his head.

“Where are you going?”

“Piss. Then, I dunno, maybe down to the lake. I won’t be falling asleep anytime soon, so I might as well enjoy the scenery.” He doesn’t offer for Felix to join him, and Felix is too shy to ask, so he lays his head back down and tries to get comfortable.

He’s halfway back to sleep when there’s a quick, rasping cry followed by a shushing sound. Staccato breaths punctuated by the slight creak of an air mattress, and he’s had enough. Either Dorian and Cullen are dead to the world, or they’re engaging in their own sneaky tent sex, because no complaints arise from their side of the campsite. He slithers free of the sleeping bag and rummages blindly for a hoodie and sandals—the night is fairly balmy, but the air feels cooler after getting out of bed.

Mabs isn’t chained to her line outside Cullen’s tent, so he follows the glint of water to the trees until he gets to the shoreline. Everything looks different at night: the darks are black, the lights are muted grey, and the whites are blazing silver, brought into stark relief by the veil of moonlight falling over the lake. He shivers and ducks his chin a little deeper into his hood.

At first, Carver is nowhere to be seen. Then there’s a rustle of movement off to his right, where the bare rock is exposed like bones rising from the sandy soil, and Carver steps out into the open with Mabs at his heels. She sniffs around a bit and then her head perks up and she looks Felix’s way. Not wanting to seem like a creep, he makes kissing sounds and gets down in  crouch, and she bounds in his direction to investigate.

“Hey sweetheart,” he whispers—sound carries over the water, especially at night it seems, and he doesn’t want to make any more of a disturbance than has already been made. He pets her soft ears and kisses the top of her head before standing up again. Carver is coming toward him on quiet, scuffing feet, looking unsurprised to see him.

“Couldn’t go back to sleep?”

Felix shakes his head. “It was getting awkward, so I gave up.” He nods to the lake, which is dark and silken-smooth. “It’s a beautiful night, anyway.”

“It is,” Carver agrees. “The water’s still pretty warm, I was thinking of going for a swim.”

Felix looks at him, at his well-worn sweatshirt and the rumpled boxers that do absolutely nothing to disguise his rangy legs. “Like that?”

“I was going to undress, obviously,” Carver scoffs. “It was just a whim. Do you want to join?”

Felix dabs the water with his toe. It’s warm here in the shallows, of course, warmer even than the air, and it’s tempting. Carver is already shucking his hoodie—half a moment later and he’s completely bare, pale as the moonlight falling on the branches of a birch tree. Paralyzed, Felix watches him kick his boxers on top of the pile and walk naked into the lake.

He doesn’t see anything, really, unless one counts his slim, well-shaped arse, which Felix doesn’t. Even so, his mouth is dry as he fumbles with his own clothes, shivering a little. He feels trapped in an odd sort of fugue, a state of being that feels fogged by sleep and heightened by the silvery-grey light that turns everything into a faded dream-world; it doesn’t feel quite real, and maybe that’s what gives him the courage to peel off his briefs and stand on the shore in nothing but his skin, watching Carver forge deeper into the water. It’s up to his hips, now, framing the divots of his sacrum like a mirror. His waist isn’t exactly narrow, but it’s narrower than his broad, powerful shoulders, which slope up to his neck and his dark mop of hair, curling a little on top and coming to a point at the nape of his neck. Odd how everything is so sharp and clear, thrown into the stark contrast of muscle and bone, of dark hair against white flesh. Felix steps into the water.

It gets cold quickly, and it’s enough to shake him out of his weird half-dream. Carver is still beautiful, like a painting, but he blows bubbles and splashes and mutters profanity under his breath about the water and its effects on his nether regions, and Felix has to smother his giggles to keep them from carrying across the water. Mabs swims circles around them for a bit before getting tired and retreating to lick herself dry on the shore, and Felix rolls over to float on his back, entirely exposed but somehow not self-conscious.

“This is much better than lying there listening to them going at it,” he decides, looking up at the glittering stars. The night is so much clearer here than in London—the city is never properly dark, and the sky is almost like a vacuum in comparison.

“Agreed.” Carver is floating too, somewhere nearby; not close enough to touch, but close enough that his even breathing is as crisply audible as if they were laying side by side. There’s a pause, heavy with contentment, and then he ventures, almost hesitantly, “I didn’t realize you had more tattoos.”

Oh. Felix blushes, even though there’s nothing to be ashamed of—he’s fairly certain he saw a tattoo on Carver’s arse or thereabouts when he was first getting into the water. “Yeah. I forgot you hadn’t seen all of them.”

“I mean, I wasn’t _staring_ , but they look… really beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Felix says, weirdly tight-throated. “My mum helped design them.”

“She’s an artist?”

“Yeah. She and Mae helped me design them, and Mae actually did them. The griffon on my back needs a few more details but I think it’s most done.”

“D’you mind if I ask what they represent?”

“Not at all.” He’s given this spiel enough times that he can gloss over the truth with something more palatable. “The ones on my arms are for the important people in my life—my parents, Dorian, Mae. The griffon is for bravery and overcoming hardship, and the breastplate is a reminder that I’m stronger than I think I am.” He touches his own sternum lightly, feeling only skin but knowing that if he were to look into a mirror, a warrior would be looking back. “Also, you’re a liar.”

“I’m a what?” Carver echoes, amused and baffled.

“You said your only tattoo was the Star of David on your shoulder, but now I know the truth.”

“Oh, god. Would you believe me if I said I almost never remember I have it?”

“Of course I believe you. It’s on your arse, I doubt you make a habit of looking at that every day.”

“It’s not my _arse_ , it’s my _hip_ ,” Carver says with the air of a man who’s had to make that distinction many times before. “It was supposed to be, anyway.”

“What is it?”

“A dog we had growing up—he belonged to all of us, but he loved Dad the most. So it’s kind of in memory of my Dad. I don’t regret it, exactly, but I think I would pick a different spot if I could do it over.”

“If you ever need it touched up…” Felix begins, grinning wickedly, but a spray of water cuts him off with spluttering.

“Shut up, Alexius. I’m perfectly happy to let it fade into oblivion. If I ever want a proper _in memorium_ I’ll get the family crest.”

Felix perks up. “You have a family crest?”

“Yeah. Technically it’s from the Amell side, but when Mum and Dad got married he tweaked it to look more hawkish and less… whatever it was before. Dragonish, I think, but it’s so minimalist it’s mostly just shapes. I think Shani has it on her back somewhere.”

“I wish the Alexiuses had a family crest,” Felix muses.

“Make one,” Carver suggests. There’s a swirl of water, and Carver stands upright a short distance away, the water lapping at his diaphragm. Feeling exposed, Felix does the same. “You’ve got a hell of a good start already. A griffon rampant.”

“I suppose I do.” He looks down because it’s easier than looking into his eyes, lit silver with starlight, and rubs the bare patch on his right bicep where the vines coil with no imagery to anchor them. He hasn’t thought of something to put there yet—maybe a shield?—but he has an odd feeling like he’s waiting to find out. “I’d love to see your family crest sometime.” The double entendre strikes him belatedly, and he covers his face with his hands. “Oh god. Not like that. I mean…” _Yes like that, but I can’t say it, can I?_

Carver snickers. “To be honest I didn’t even realize until you said something. So, you know, good for you, you outed yourself with that one.”

“Shut up.” He ducks back under the water up to his neck, shivering. “I’m freezing, I’m headed back to the tent if you’re finished teasing me.”

“Go ahead, I won’t hold it against you. The cold I mean.” He winks.

“Shut _up_ , Hawke, you’re bloody merciless.” Still, he hurries out of the water and gathers his things, covering his (admittedly wilted) privates with one hand. Turning back, he calls, “I’m going to dry off on your sleeping bag, is that all right?” and then splits, dashing through the shivery dark and trying not to giggle too loudly.

Carver bursts into the tent barely thirty seconds later, breathless and laughing. Felix is standing in the middle in his pants, patting himself dry with a towel like a civilized human being, and he raises his eyebrows at his raucous entry. “Are you trying to wake the whole camp?”

“Bloody well sounds like it!” comes Dorian’s irate voice, not even slightly muffled by the paper-thin tent walls.

Carver ducks his head and dumps his clothes, searching for a towel of his own. His arse glows practically white in the dark, and Felix bites back a few smart remarks as he bundles himself into his sleeping bag and settles down. “I’ll be blaming you for this in the morning, just so you know.”

“You need to learn to say _no_ to terrible ideas,” Carver snipes back, but he’s grinning when he finally flops into his own sleeping bag in nothing but a tee shirt and his boxers. _He must run hot_ , Felix thinks, and his quiescent libido perks up in agreement. “Go to sleep, Alexius. Thanks for not getting my sleeping bag wet.”

“I had a feeling there would be swift and terrible retribution if I tried anything.”

“On that score you are correct.”

Another tent is unzipped followed by an unholy shriek. “Who let the dog in here? Cullen, merciful Christ she’s _soaked_!”

Felix and Carver look at each other for a split second before diving under their sleeping bags in tandem, muffling their giggles into their pillows. “If anyone asks,” Carver whispers, “it wasn’t us!”

///

Morning finds them on dish duty after their “wet dog stunt,” which was hard to get out of when they realized how crystal-clear sound carried at night. Mostly it’s not so bad. Carver manfully takes on the worst of the pots and pans, leaving Felix to scrub bemusedly at the cups and plates while Mabs takes over prewash duty.

Lunch is the worst of it—Dorian decided to get fancy with some kind of curry, and it sticks so terribly that they give up and leave it to soak. Cullen and Anders and Fenris have gone off hiking, and Dorian made vague noises about driving to the nearest village for a spot of proper civilized tea before disappearing shortly thereafter, and so the campsite is fairly deserted. Clearly at loose ends, Carver suggests a boating expedition. He’d seen a sign a little ways down the road for rentals, he says, and he’s aching to get his hands around a paddle.

Felix agrees, perfectly happy to go along with whatever he likes, so the afternoon finds them drifting around the lake in a wide-bellied canoe, Carver reacquainting himself with steering techniques while Felix lounges in the front with a book and makes smart remarks.

“Rock at twelve o’clock,” he drawls toward the end of their excursion, nose buried in the middle of _Pride and Prejudice_ but his eyes drifting skyward through his sunglasses without really taking in the text.

“You’re a fucking liar,” Carver says calmly from the stern. “You can’t even see over the prow.”

“Just trying to make life interesting.”

“Hmph. Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

Felix tips his head back to stare at Carver upside-down. “Aren’t you?”

“Oh, I am. Very much. Glad to provide this relaxing sun-tanning service free of charge.” He smirks, squinting a smile at him from under his hat, and Felix clamps down on the butterflies in his stomach.

Before can think of a suitable reply that doesn’t sound too besotted, the bottom of the boat vibrates under him. He jumps and the canoe pitches a little, provoking a warning yelp from Carver before he settles down. “Sorry, sorry! I think someone’s calling me.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and finds Dorian’s name looking back at him. Odd. “Hello?”

“Felix, thank goodness. I just got a call from your father, he said he couldn’t reach you—the signal is shite out here.”

Felix’s blood runs cold. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong!” Dorian laughs. “What on earth—goodness, Felix, no, I’ve just had the most wonderful news. Have you checked your email today?”

“We’re on holiday, Dor, obviously I haven’t checked my email. You’re lucky I had my phone on in the first place. And on _me_. We’re on the lake, I could go under at any minute.”

“Hey,” Carver protests, but Dorian’s scoffing drowns him out.

“Shut up a minute and listen to me. That dig you applied for, the archeology semester in Greece in the fall? With Doctor Chevin? You’ve been _accepted_ , Fee. Gereon’s just waiting to hear from you before he sends the fees in.”

Felix’s mind scrambles, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. “The—the fees? What? Don’t be ridiculous, I can pay my own—”

“You know he won’t hear of it, so don’t even try. Just give me the go-ahead and I’ll call him myself, the mobile signal is better in town.” Dorian sounds like he’s holding back from shouting his delight to the heavens, but Felix is just trying to get his thoughts together. Excitement is brewing in him, sure and steady, but under it are the first bubbles of anxiety rising from the pit of his stomach, and he suddenly wishes they were on dry ground. At least give his feet something sturdy to stand on.

“I… yes, of course, of course I want to—are you _sure_? Jesus, Dorian, fucking _Greece_?”

Behind him, Carver misses a stroke with his paddle and lakewater sprinkles the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he whispers, barely audible over Dorian’s chatter in his ear.

“Isn’t it fantastic? I must insist on visiting you at least once, perhaps over autumn break. I’m sure your term will coincide with ours to some degree, isn’t the project run through Calenhad?”

“They partner with the university in Paris where Fiona Chevin teaches, yeah. Um. Listen, are you in town? Let my Dad know, but I’m going to try and call him when we get back to shore.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll call him real quick. Listen, Fee?”

“Yeah?”

“Congratulations. This is huge.”

“I know. I…” He trails off, thinking of all the work he’d put into his application, a part of him thinking he’d never hear anything back. For all Fiona’s friendship with his father, there were other people involved in the decision, and he was just one man. Just one _boy_ it feels like sometimes. Half the time he doesn’t believe it’s real that he isn’t still seven years old, waking from a nightmare to crawl into his mami and papa’s bed for comfort.  “I don’t quite know what I’m feeling.”

“Well don’t think too hard,” Dorian says cheerfully. “Call your father, see what he has to say. We’ll reconvene over dinner. I’m picking up steak to celebrate, Cullen does it marvelously over a camp stove. You’d never know it wasn’t done in the kitchen of a five star restaurant.”

“Thanks, Dor. I… appreciate it. And I appreciate you calling me, letting me know.”

“Of course. Of course. I’m happy for you, Fee. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Felix hangs up and stares his phone in silence. Behind him, Carver clears his throat—he’s stopped paddling, and the canoe drifts free through the calm water, noise pointed vaguely toward the jetty  short distance away. “Everything all right?”

“I… think so.” He wants to turn around, but he’s also a little afraid to think of what Carver’s expression might be. Just five minutes ago they were drifting in the lazy summer sunshine, flirting—dare he say it?—and wrapped in their own world of water and summer, kissed by the languid heat and the embrace of solitude. He could almost make himself believe it might be possible, climbing out of the boat afterwards, laughing, feet tangled in the shallow water, fingers brushing until the perfect blend of clumsiness and luck brings their lips together.

Or, instead, they can have this. Tense silence, Felix strung between elation and terror, facing down a sudden turn in his future that he couldn’t have predicted six months ago. He dips a hand in the water and lets the warm slide ground him, just a little. “I applied for an archeological dig in Greece a few months ago. I didn’t really think I’d hear anything back—or if I did, it would be a rejection.”

“When’s it start?” He sounds curious, but in a distant way, like an acquaintance inquiring after one’s health.

“September second I fly down. I think. I can’t remember all the details, I need to call my dad.”

Behind him, the paddle dips into the water again and the canoe slides forward. “I’ll get us to shore.”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, it’s all right,” Carver cuts him off, brusque but not upset, at least Felix doesn’t think so. He doesn’t quite know how to parse the sound of his voice yet, not like this. “We were winding down anyway.”

///

Carver knows he doesn’t have a good reason to be disappointed. He _should_ be happy for Felix, and he _is_ , but he also feels… bereft. Like something that was just within his grasp has suddenly been taken away.

That night Cullen makes steak, and it’s marvelous, but Carver has work hard to eat his share. Fenris is the only one who notices, he thinks, and of course he says nothing about it, for which Carver is grateful. Everyone else is too focused on Felix, who, after his initial shock, has dissolved into a bubbly mess of excitement and chatter. He wears the battery on his phone down to nothing going over the email and the information Doctor Chevin sent him, and Dorian is already waxing rhapsodic about the holiday he’s going to take to visit him, on and on about white sandy beaches and little pink drinks until Carver’s just about had enough.

He takes Mabs for a long winding walk to clear his head, and when he gets back the fire is down to coals and everyone’s off in bed. Mabs settles down to gnaw a stick, and then he remembers the wood. The little lump Fen had chucked at his head yesterday, that’s still sitting somewhere—where did he put it?

Felix is sleeping when he slips inside the tent, he thinks. He’s wrapped up in his bag, his face calm and almost childlike against his pillow when Carver looks his way, but he moves as quickly and quietly as he can to fetch the wood and his whittling kit from his bag. When he returns to the fire, Mabs is still there. He forgoes one of the folding chairs, sitting instead on a log a little further away from the dregs of the fire’s warmth. He hefts the wood in his hands, smooths his thumb over its gnarls and rough bark edges. He knows what he wants to make—he can feel it in his fingers, like an itch or maybe inspiration. Something to travel over land and sea and remind someone that somewhere far away, someone else is thinking fondly of him.

A twig snaps at the edge of the glade and Carver looks up from his work. Tentative, a gilt-edged shadow, Felix steps into the firelight. “Just me. Sorry to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding.” He looks down at the little lump of wood in his palm, somewhere between bird and beast, and the scattering of shavings littered around his feet. “Just keeping my hands busy.”

“Can’t sleep?” He edges closer, and at Carver’s inviting nod, lowers himself to the log a short distance away. “What are you making?” 

“It’s a surprise,” Carver says. 

“What? Is it for me?”

“It’s a _surprise_ , Alexius, do I need to get you a dictionary?”

Felix harrumphs and folds his arms over his knees, burying his face into them. To ease the sting, Carver flicks a few wood shavings his way with the next few strokes of his knife; they tickle Felix’s ear and slide down his collar, and he brushes them away with a soft snort. 

“Why are _you_ up?” Carver asks. “Can’t sleep either?”

“I guess not. I’m just… really excited. And scared.” 

Carver glances over at him, face cast in shadow but the bridge of his nose and the curve of his lips lit by the dying fire. “Scared of what?”

“The dig. Just… it’s a wonderful opportunity, I know that logically, but the thought of taking this step, so far away from home… from all my friends…” He cuts himself off and rubs briskly at his short-cropped hair, knocking loose a few more wood shavings. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not silly. You’re right, it is scary. But it’s going to be worth it. You’re taking a step forward, Fee, that’s something to be proud of.”

Felix huffs. “You sound like my Dad.”

“Oof. Do I? I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not—I mean, you’re right. You both are. I’ve been flitting from degree to degree without actually doing anything practical with them. It’s high time I moved my career forward.”

“Okay, hang on, that’s not what I meant.” Carver puts his whittling aside and flips one leg over the log to straddle it, facing Felix with intent. He’s small and hunched on the other side of the log, but at Carver’s coaxing he nudges his way a little closer so that their knees knock together just inside the circle of light still licking at the coals. “Has your dad been pressuring you to…”

“Get a job? A life? Not in so many words. He’s just very…” Felix twirls his fingers in the air. “He’s worried about me, because for him, success is linked to his work. It’s the most important thing in the world to him.”

“Apart from you,” Carver interjects, which gets him a quick, surprised look. “You know it’s true. It’s obvious to anyone who knows you—I haven’t even met him and I know he would do anything to keep you safe and happy.” 

Felix gives a fleeting smile. “You’re right. I forget that sometimes—well, not forget, but… he’s very good at making me feel like I’m not trying not hard enough, I suppose. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just how he sees the world. Study hard, get into the best schools, get a job that pays well. Work yourself into the ground for the rest of your life because it’ll never be enough.” He rubs his eyelid, groaning. “Ugh. Listen to me. What am I even complaining about? He cares. That’s more than a lot of people get.” He glances askance at Carver like he has more to say but he isn’t sure it would be welcome. 

“I know a thing or two about family expectations,” he says simply. “It’s a bit shit, sometimes, but as long as you have people to help you figure stuff out…”

Felix looks straight at him. “Do you think I should to Greece?”

No holds barred. A tiny selfish part of Carver wants to say _no_ , but it’s easily quashed by what comes out. “Yes. Yeah, I think you should go to Greece. It’ll be good for you. And it’ll be a hell of an experience. You’d better take a fuck ton of pictures.”

Felix grins, quick and unselfconscious. “I will. You… should come visit.”

“Yeah?” He might be a little taken aback, but he tries not to show it. “Yeah, if I can swing it with work, of course. I’d love to come pester you on those… what was it? Those white sandy beaches?”

Felix snorts. “Yeah. If I even get that much of a break. We’ll see.” He rubs his face and sighs. “I still can’t believe it’s happening. I mean, I can, but…”

“It’s fine. It’ll be fine, Alexius. Just take it one day at a time.” He boosts himself off the log and onto the ground, stretching his legs out to the fire. The log is surprisingly comfortable at his back. He pops his knife back into its case and slips the carving into his pocket to give him later. When it’s finished. When the griffon is finally running rampant. He stretches his arm out against the back of the log. “C’mere, mate.”

Felix wrinkles his nose. “Please don’t ever call me that again,” he says, but he wriggles in against Carver’s side anyway. 

“Why?”

“Well… it’s all very heterosexual isn’t it?”

“I don’t think either of us are in danger of being accused of that,” Carver says drily, layering over the frantic beating of his heart with arid sarcasm. 

“Oh good. That’s all right then.” And Felix settles his head on his shoulder like it belongs there, giving a little contented sigh that resonates somewhere deep in Carver’s chest. He rests his arm carefully across Felix’s shoulders and tries not to shiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pride and Prejudice is a guilty pleasure of Felix's, taken from earlgreyer1's "A Lawyer and an Architect Walk into a Bar."


	14. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carver reclaims his history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new warnings, just a reminder for references to canonical parent death.

In spite of Bethany, who had stopped by his flat every day to check on things, Peaches is frantically excited to see him. She curls around his ankles as soon as he walks in the door and demands to be picked up, purring thunderously when he acquiesces, and her nose sits fervently under his scrubby, stubbly chin as he navigates the living area and flops on the couch.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he says when he’s finally sitting comfortably, one foot propped up on his weekend bag and Peaches sprawled against him, the tip of her tail wisping delightedly against his knee. “How was your holiday? Did you miss papa?”

On the other side of the room, Fenris snorts and dumps his own bag next to the door. “Does _papa_ want to order anything in, or are we going to attempt to scrounge whatever remains in your fridge?”

“Order in, of course. I won’t subject you to the contents of my pantry on your last day.” He makes soft weeping sounds into Peaches’ ruff and yelps when Fen’s hand connects with the back of his head. “Ouch! What was that for, you monster.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Fenris tells him gruffly. “Stop.”

“You’re leaving me _forever_ for greener pastures. I’m allowed to be dramatic.”

“It’s hardly forever, Hawke, goodness. And I’ll just be a fifteen minute tube ride away, you know that.” He drifts away again, clanking about in the kitchen. Carver cranes his head back over the couch cushions and sighs.

“Why are you doing the dishes? They’re not even yours, and you’re moving out tomorrow.”

“I am aware.” He doesn’t turn around from the sink, though, just turns on the hot water and starts humming under his breath.

Sighing, Carver contorts himself enough to fish his phone from his pocket and text Merrill one-handed. _ordering in for fen’s last night, come on over whenever_

The reply comes almost instantaneously— _his LAST NIhT??!?!_ —echoed by the slamming of the door across the hall and his own door rocketing open at light speed. Merrill comes to a skidding standstill, pink-cheeked and swimming in a giant purple jumper as she looks about for Fenris. “Fen! You’re leaving?”

“Hello, Merrill,” Fenris says, unperturbed by her entrance. He allows her to embrace him, her thin arms wound around his entire body even elbow-deep in suds as he is. “Yes, I’m moving into Anders’ place tomorrow, permanently.”

“This is different from… before?” She glances over at Carver, who nuzzles determinedly in between Peaches’ ears, and boosts herself up on the counter.

“Yes, quite different. After a few months of dating, Anders and I have decided to take our relationship to the next level. Carver has nothing to do with it—he is still my dearest friend, and always will be.” Fenris doesn’t turn around from the plate he’s currently scrubbing, but he pitches his voice more than loud enough to carry. Throat uncomfortably tight, Carver deposits Peaches on the couch and stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“I’m going to unpack and shower and things. You two order whatever you like, my card’s on the kitchen table in my wallet.”

In the safety of his own room, he pulls off his clothes and dumps them in the laundry bin, which is still half-full from last week, before retreating to the loo. There he turns up the water as hot as he can bear it and stands under the pounding stream, letting it burn away the lingering aches in his neck and back. “You’re getting old,” he scoffs at himself, palms scrubbing determinedly at his face. “Not even thirty and you can’t handle sleeping on the ground anymore.”

His own brusque attitude does very little to dampen the curl of… _something_ in his chest. Not quite embarrassment, not quite thrill, Fenris would probably call it a crush. Carver just calls it stupid. Stupid to wrap his arm around Felix’s shoulders two nights ago, stupid to drift off with the firelight still licking at their toes. Stupider still to wake up with Felix’s head pillowed intimately on his shoulder the next morning, their legs tangled together and Cullen clearing his throat awkwardly from the other side of the campsite. Carver had detangled himself quickly, trying not to wake Felix, and succeeded in escaping before anyone else noticed their precarious positions. By the time Felix was properly awake and had changed into new clothes, they were in the middle of packing up the campsite and debating the best place to stop for breakfast on the way back to London. Crisis averted.

Unfortunately, the memory still lingers. Potently. He scrubs everywhere, thorough but perfunctory, and still can’t quite avoid the sizzle that hums to life just under his skin. He curls his toes against the floor of the shower, glaring as he watches his cock grow plump against his thigh. “Stop it,” he mutters, and reaches for the shampoo.

He escapes the shower half-hard but unscathed. Ten more minutes or so and his ablutions are finished, he’s dressed in fresh clothes, and he’s toting his dirty clothing out into the main room to be taken to the laundry later.

“Oh,” Merrill says when he appears, sounding disappointed, “you shaved your beard.”

Carver blinks. He hadn’t even realized it had grown that long. “I thought it was more like stubble.” He deposits his basket by the door and goes to flop on the couch next to Merrill.

“Long stubble,” Fenris grunts from the kitchen where he’s wrestling with a wine bottle. “Another day or two and it might have been something worth looking at.”

Carver pats his cheeks, now smooth and soft and smelling faintly of cinnamon, and considers it. He’s always shied away from a beard for some reason—too much upkeep, for one—but maybe as an experiment sometime this summer… it’s not as if he has anyone to impress. Not anymore.

“Hey.” Merrill’s tiny hand slips into his, eyes wide and green and knowing. “You all right?”

“’Course I’m all right.”

“He’s pining,” Fenris offers, punctuated with the _pop_ of the wine cork.

“Am not,” Carver clips back automatically, feeling his eyebrows slam down .

“Mmhmm. You know, I understand if you get lonely when I move out. I won’t be offended if you decide to look for a roommate. Maybe someone who’s still in grad school who would be quietly studying most of the time, working on their thesis?”

Carver tries to picture Felix living in his flat—tries to picture even being able to _function_ with Felix living in his flat—and shakes his head resolutely. “Not happening. I’ve got Peaches, and I’ve got Merrill next door, and…” The buzzer sounds. “And food. I’ll be right back.”

He escapes into the hall, checking automatically for his wallet. Downstairs, he confirms his card number with the delivery boy and totes the food back upstairs, stomach growling at the spicy, aromatic steam that curls up from the bags. Indian again. Well, it _is_ Fen’s favorite restaurant, and it’s just around the corner—he probably wants one last hurrah before he moves out and isn’t a stone’s throw away anymore. If the smell reminds him of Felix, of his mismatched smile and the sound of his laughter carrying across the lake, well, that’s neither here nor there.

Upstairs, Merrill has set the kitchen table with all of Carver’s mismatched chinaware, mostly secondhand-store finds from Bethy, and Fen has poured the wine. “Fancy,” he quips, setting the cartons on the counter to be unpacked. And while he means it sarcastically, it’s… nice. Especially after a few days of eating camp fare off of tin plates. They eat almost everything they ordered and sit around the table after, sipping wine and reminiscing, and sometime around midnight Carver finds himself stumbling to bed. He’s out instantly.

He wakes up around noon the next day, dry-mouthed and confused, with a very impressive bit of morning wood. Too groggy and hungover to appreciate it, he takes care of things quickly and uses the loo before making his way to the kitchen. Fenris is curled in a ball in the armchair with Peaches draped over the back, and Merrill is sprawled on the couch, a blanket thrown haphazardly over her legs and her mouth open in a silent snore. Carver readjusts the blanket carefully and plucks Peaches up for breakfast.

Bacon is curling in the pan and water and paracetamol are sitting nicely in his stomach when there comes a tap on the door. He slumps over to it and peers through the peephole. _Oh_.

“Hey, Bethy,” he whispers, opening the door. She wrinkles her nose at his rumpled appearance but hugs him anyway.

“Hey. I wasn’t sure if you were back yet so I was going to come check on Peaches.”

“Yeah, sorry, I meant to text you. Um.” He stands back and waves her inside. “Want breakfast?”

She snorts. “Sure.” Her eyes travel over the wreckage—the dirty plates on the table, the carton of rice that got left out, the wine still sitting open on the counter, and Merrill’s foot twitching where it hangs off the arm of the couch. “Fun night?”

“Pretty decent. We just got to talking. And drinking.” He returns to the stove just in time to rescue the bacon from being overdone and lays them neatly on a folded bit of paper towel. “How was your weekend?”

“Good. The checkup went well. So far so good.” She smiles brightly and hands him the egg carton. “Want me to slice the tomato?”

“If you like.” He cracks the eggs one by one right into the bacon grease, wincing a little at the deafening crackle as they start to cook; but when he looks over his shoulder, Merrill and Fen haven’t stirred. “You sure everything’s all right?”

“With _me_ , yeah, absolutely. My appetite’s been a lot better lately.” As if to prove it, she snags a rasher and crunches down on the crisp, fatty end. “It’s Mum I’m worried about.”

He puts the lid on the pan, cracked just a bit to let the steam escape and turns to face her with his arms folded and his hip hard up against the counter. “What do you mean?”

“She got an email the other day,” Bethy says slowly, examining her bacon critically as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the room. “From an old friend in Canada. A friend of Dad’s.”

Carver feels his entire body go still and quiet. “What did they want?”

“He was getting in contact because he has some stuff of Dad’s and he wondered if Mum wanted it.”

“Stuff?” Carver echoes, confused. “Why didn’t he contact her sooner?”

“Stuff as in… a boat.”

“A _boat_?”

“A sailboat. For ocean sailing. I guess he’s a pilot and a bit of a collector—he’s got a small hangar on his property, but he’s selling off some of his antique planes and he rediscovered Dad’s old boat under a tarp in the back. Completely forgot he had it.”

Carver blinks. “How do you _forget_ you have an enormous sailboat just hanging around? I don’t even remember Dad having a boat—we wouldn’t have been able to afford it.”

Bethy shrugs, fishing about in a drawer for a knife. “Who knows. His email was a little bit scatterbrained, but Mum claims she remembers him fondly. Said he was always one for adventure, old Maury.”

“Maury?”

“Maurevar’s his full name, if you can believe it.” She glances askance at him through her eyelashes and grabs a tomato. “Maurevar Carver.”

“Maurevar _what_?”

She hisses him quiet, and he switches off the hob, letting the eggs finish cooking under their own steam. “Maurevar Carver. He and Dad were good friends in school, I guess.”

“And they named me after him?”

“Looks like it. Mum didn’t say too much about it—she’s been very quiet ever since she found out. I think she wants the boat, Carv.”

“What would we _do_ with one?” He looks around, taking in his cramped apartment with new eyes. “Where would we _put_ one, for heaven’s sake?”

“I don’t know.” She’s giving him that _look_ , the one that makes him want to sweep her up and cradle her from the evils of the world. “But think about it. We don’t have a lot of Dad’s things because we just didn’t have much, then. She has his jacket still hanging in the closet in her bedroom, and a few of the wooden things he made, the little sculptures. Some pictures. But it’s not much, Carv. This is like a real piece of him, a piece of their history.”

“And this Maury wants to, what, sell it to her?”

“God, no. He wants to give it to us. Or give us the option, anyway, otherwise he’ll be forced to sell.” The tomato slices are sitting in neat stacks by now, and she edges him out of the way with her hip to start a fresh pan on the hob. “He said all we’d have to do is transport it.”

“Yeah, okay, _all we’d have to do_. How do you transport a bloody ocean sailboat?”

Bethy stares at him. “On… the ocean?”

He scoffs. “Well yeah, obviously, if I knew how to sail. And if it were even seaworthy, still.”

“He said in the email it would need a little fixing up, but he’d be willing to help if—”

“If _what_?” From the other side of the room, someone snorts in their sleep. Carver rubs his hand over his mouth and tips the eggs onto a clean plate. “If I flew over there and helped him? And sailed it back? To where? Bethy, this is crazy, there’s no way that’s possible.”

Bethany flips the tomato slices into the pan and they sizzle in the hot butter, sharp enough to cover the sound of her sigh. “I know. I know it isn’t, I just thought you’d want to know.”

Carver abruptly feels like shite. He wraps an arm around Beth’s slim shoulders as they watch the tomatoes soften and turn black around the edges. “Dinner at Mum’s tonight?”

“Yeah. Mare won’t be able to make it, but we’d really like it if you came.”

“’Course. It’s been too long.” He hears padding footsteps and turns around to see Merrill tiptoeing into the kitchen. She pauses with her toes just edging onto the linoleum, smiling guiltily.

“Sorry to interrupt, I was hoping for some water.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Bethy assures her. “I’ll get you a glass. Are you in the mood for breakfast?”

“I’m _always_ in the mood for breakfast,” Merrill chirps, eyes like bottle-green saucers.

While the girls get situated at the table, chatting softly, Carver busies himself with the tomatoes. There’s no toast because he forgot to buy bread before the camping trip, but this will have to do. He piles the lot of it on a platter and deposits it on the table before fetching plates and silverware.

Fenris shuffles in a minute or two later and heads straight for the coffee pot. He looks bleary, Carver thinks, but not overly so, hair ruffled and baggy t-shirt hanging askew on his shoulders as he orbits around the kitchen half-awake. When he settles down he spears an egg and two tomato slices onto his plate and sits in comfortable silence while the others keep up a meandering conversation; eventually Carver’s eyes slide away, content, and he basks in the midday light and the comfortable buzz of a fading hangover while he finishes his own food.

Late afternoon finds him a few blocks north, stepping out onto the drizzly pavement in front of Anders’ flat. Anders’ and Fen’s flat, now. His shoulders ache a little from hauling boxes for a few hours, but he isn’t about to admit it to anyone, least of all Anders. Not that he dislikes Anders. He doesn’t. He just… forgot what it was like to live alone. He scowls and digs his hands into his pockets as he heads for the nearest tube station. Maybe he should think about getting a dog.

The ride is brief, thankfully—he can’t stand how packed it gets around this hour of the day—and he gets off the Victoria Line just as a velvety summer twilight is settling over London. The sun is still in the sky, but it’s hidden behind the hill, and he trudges up it with his hands in his pockets and his nose filled with the fragrance of the wisteria rambling all over the hedgerows.

He’s barely got his hand around the door handle when it opens of its own accord. Leandra steps out to meet him, leaving a smudge of flour behind when she kisses his cheek. “My darling boy. How are you? It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Carver bends down and allows himself to be enfolded, pressing a dry kiss to his mother’s hair. She smells of lavender laundry soap and tarragon, familiar, and he sighs a little sigh as he pulls away. “I just saw you last week, Mum.”

“I know. Still.” She pats his chest under the guise of smoothing his collar. “A mother likes to see her son as frequently as possible.”

Carver wonders if he should mention the boat. Maybe just a hint. “A lot of things have happened.”

She gives him a quick, piercing look. “Bethany told you, then.”

“She did. But we don’t have to talk about it right now if you don’t want.”

“Maybe after dinner,” she allows, and hooks her arm through his. “Come to the kitchen, luv, dinner’s almost ready.” 

It smells divine, and Carver says so as they walk down the hall together. When they enter the kitchen, a whole roast chicken is sitting on the stovetop cooling in its own juices—that explains the tarragon—and Bethany is standing at the counter muttering over the finishing butter for a mounded platter of spiced potato wedges. There’s fruit salad, too, and dinner rolls, and painstakingly heart-shaped chocolate pasties sitting innocently under a towel on the counter. 

“What’s the occasion?” he asks, a little baffled by all the effort his mum and sister have gone to put this all together. 

“We’re celebrating,” Leandra smiles, squeezing his elbow. “Well, maybe celebrate isn’t quite the right word.”

“We’re cheering you up,” Bethy chips in. 

“That’s right. I know Fen moving out is going to be an adjustment for you, so I thought we could do something special for dinner.”

Touched, Carver squeezes them into a hug, one on either side. “Thank you.”

Bethany squeezes him back. “Don’t mention it. Now let go, you big lug, and go carve the chicken.”

“Is that a pun? Because I don’t find it amusing.”

“Your name is constantly a pun, in all situations.” But she releases him, smirking, and he goes to fetch a suitable knife for the job.

The subject of Maurevar Carver and Malcolm’s boat doesn’t come up until after dinner. Nothing’s been properly cleared away, just moved to the counter for later, and they’re sitting around with cups of coffee—tea for Bethy—and nibbling halfheartedly on the pastries after stuffing themselves on chicken when Leandra finally clears her throat.

“So. Carver, Beth told you everything?”

“As far as I know,” Carver says as Bethany nods along.

“Good. There have been a few developments since this morning; I’ve been in contact with Maury over email, and I had a nice chat with Thom this afternoon—”

“Thom? You mean Blackwall?”

“That’s right. Did you know he still keeps his old property in Cornwall? He was a sailor before the accident, I believe he sold his boat a year or so ago but he still has the means to store one and he’s open to providing that space to us for a nominal rental fee.”

Carver stares at her. She’s thought of _everything_. He hadn’t known Blackwall before the accident that afflicted him with retrograde amnesia, barely thinks of him as Thom—his old name, one he uses more for simplicity than feeling any real affiliation with it—and he hadn’t remembered he used to be a sailor. Now that he thinks of it, it suits him. Gruff, bearded, with his Cornish accent and big, well-weathered hands, he would absolutely be at home on the deck of an old fishing sloop. Instead he’s here, a woodworker in London building a fresh life for himself, and Thom Rainier is a thing of the past. Except for his old cabin, apparently. And his old boat house.

“You really want this boat,” he says instead of voicing any of that aloud. “Dad’s, I mean.”

“Yes,” Leandra says simply, coffee cup cradled between her palms. “There’s a lot of history tied up with that boat—I had put it out of my mind when we first moved here, I didn’t think there’d ever be a way to bring it with us. And I had three children to think of before anything else. But now…” She smiles wistfully, eyes drifting to some faraway place that Carver can’t recall. “You were both born in that boat, you know.”

“We were?” Carver and Bethy say at the same time. They look at one another across the table, half-smiles rueful, perfect mirror images of one another.

“I doubt you even remember we _had_ a boat—we didn’t have the money to keep it up after you were born, and Maury agreed to keep it in storage until you were grown a little more and I wasn’t at my wits end just trying to keep Carver in trousers that fit. Sprouting up like a weed, he was, a few inches every month it seemed. And then we moved, of course, and I haven’t thought of it in years. But yes—you were born on the way to the hospital, on the ocean. Maury delivered you, actually, your father was too busy piloting.” Her smile is wide and misty at the memory, and Carver exchanges another look with his sister.

“Well now you _have_ to tell us,” he says.

“I can’t believe you’ve never told us this story!” Bethany agrees, wriggling to the edge of her seat. “Was Marian there?”

“We left her with a neighbor,” Leandra says. She sighs and sits back in her chair. “Let me see. It was almost a week ahead of schedule when my water broke, seven in the evening on a Sunday, and the doctor was out of town so we would have had to drive three hours to the hospital in Krohne. But your father got it into his head that if we took the boat up the coast, it would be much quicker and we could hail a cab to take us to the hospital. So we called up Maury to help man the boat and off we went. 

“Bethany was born half an hour from Krohne, straight into Maury’s hands while Mal hollered instructions from the wheel. And then Carver ten minutes later—that was a surprise,” she laughs. “We’d had no idea I was pregnant with twins.”

Carver gapes. “You mean you didn't get a scan?”

“Oh, we did, but some trick of the heartbeats and how your bodies fit together made it difficult for the machine to pick him up. The equipment they had then wasn’t as good as it is now. It was a complete surprise—a lovely surprise.” She reaches out and squeezes Carver’s hand, and he watches it happen in a detached sort of way, picturing the chaos of it—the kiss of the ocean spray, the flap of the sails overhead, a man whose face he can’t recall bringing him and Bethany into the world. He shivers a little.

“And then what happened?”

“Well, we finally got to Krohne about fifteen minutes after Carver was delivered, and Mal got hold of an ambulance somehow. He was terrified the two of you would catch some sort of terrible illness, being born on a boat in the middle of the ocean in October, but after a few days in the hospital for monitoring you were both fine.” She shakes her head fondly. “It was a relief, I can tell you, especially after Marian. She was a bit of a sickly little girl, always catching some cold or other, and it wasn’t until she was almost a teenager that her immune system was anything worth speaking about. But the two of you, oh goodness, I can count on one hand the number of times you came down with the flu, or an ear infection, or anything else. Mal always said it was because of the boat. Good luck, he told me. It’s why I couldn’t bear to sell it when he… when he passed. Even though we could have used the money, goodness knows.”

Bethy folds her hand over her mother’s so that Leandra is holding on to each of her children, and squeezes. “And that’s why we’re going to get it back. Right, Carv?” She looks across the table at him, and how can he say no?

“Right.” He wonders how upset Stroud is going to be when he tells him he needs to take time off work to fly to Canada and learn to sail. Then he looks at his mother, at the memories still clouded thickly in her eyes, and at Bethany’s stubborn lower lip—a trait they both share, that Leandra has always said comes from their father—and knows it doesn’t really matter. “We’re going to get it back.”

///

What _we’re going to get it back_ really means is that Carver is going to get it back. Bethany is starting school again in a few weeks—and hopefully work at Harold’s, if all goes well—and Leandra has too many responsibilities to accompany him, but luckily he knows someone to come along for the ride.

“Is this your revenge for my moving out?” Fenris grumbles as they stand in line awaiting their luggage. “Because it seems a bit excessive.”

“You didn’t have to come,” Carver reminds him patiently. “But you agreed, and I am so incredibly grateful that you did even though you despise flying, because there’s no way I could do this without you. Thank you, Fenris.”

“Ugh. Why must you always be so literal.” But Fenris is smiling, a bit, with one side of his mouth. Carver huffs at him in response and then spots their suitcase—they’d only brought the one, and Carver is regretting bringing even that much. They probably would have been able to get away with just carry-ons, considering they’re only going to be in Canada for a few weeks, but Fenris had insisted.

“I’ve got it,” he says, and a few minutes later they’re hiking out through customs and into receiving.

The only person waiting there is an airport attendant, wearing an orange safety vest and holding a sign that says _HAWK_ in bold permanent marker. Carver exchanges a look with Fenris and goes to meet him. “Um, excuse me, my name’s Carver Hawke and I’m supposed to meet Maurevar Carver?”

“That’s right,” drawls the man—kid, really, for how scrawny he is—and he crumples the paper up and jerks his head. “This way. He’s waiting for you on the runway.”

“More flying?” Fenris whispers, pained, but he trails alongside Carver anyway as they are lead out through a side door and across the tarmac to where a tiny plane sits like a toy on a short runway of its own. And next to the plane is a man, growing more distinct as they approach—the attendant waves them on ahead, and Carver tries to swallow back his nerves.

Maurevar is not what he expected. But then, he isn’t really sure what he’d been expecting to begin with. A reclusive mountain man, perhaps, with a great big beard and  yellow slickers and a few missing teeth. But the man waiting for him on the tarmac next to the little Piper Arrow is... normal. Almost familiar, but in the way that people are familiar when they look nondescript enough to be nearly anyone. Medium height, medium brown hair shot through with grey, and a generous layer of stubble on his ruddy, smiling face. He looks _comfortable_ , with his well-worn jeans and his hiking boots stained with mud—as soon as he catches sight of Carver he breaks into a wide smile and comes forward, hand already out for him to shake. 

“Carver Hawke! Jesus, you’re the spitting image of your father. Good to see you again, though you probably don’t remember me.”

“No, sorry,” Carver begins, but Maurevar waves him off. 

“It’s fine, I don’t take offense. You were just a little squirt last time I saw you. And this is your friend, ah, Fenris?”

“That’s right,” Fen says, accepting the enthusiastic handshake with aplomb. “Nice to meet you, Maurevar.”

“Oh god, just Maury, please. No one calls me by my full name—well, most people call me Carver ’round these parts, but I have a feeling that would get confusing real quick. Why don’t I take your luggage and we can set off?”

Fenris clears his throat and Carver glances at him guiltily. “How, ah, how much farther? Fen isn’t much for flying.”

“Ten minutes at the most,” Maury says cheerfully. “Don’t worry, it’s a smooth day for flying. You’ll barely even notice you’re in the air.”

Carver must politely disagree—the light little aircraft is quite a bit bouncier than the 747 they’d flown into Canada on—but Fenris sits in the back with his headphones in and his eyes closed and makes it the rest of the way without getting sick. Carver contents himself with admiring the view, the small city turning quickly into verdant trees and patches of farmland spreading out farther than he can see. The landing feels a bit touch and go, as the runway is finely-mown grass rather than tarmac, but they climb out unscathed and relieved to finally be on firm ground for a little while.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to see the boat,” Maury says after he’s taxied the little plane into the hangar while Fen and Carver followed behind on foot. It’s an enormous space, with an arched ceiling like the ribcage of a giant prehistoric animal. The hangar is mostly empty but for a few smallish antique planes similar in size to the Piper Arrow they flew in on, but in the corner is something bigger, resting on some kind of wheeled contraption that Carver reckons is meant for transporting it. Maury gestures them toward it and they follow, taking in the gleaming white hull and the dark wood trim. The gloom makes it look even bigger than it is, but Carver knows it would be but a speck against the enormity of the ocean, bobbing like a cork in the waves. Still, he can’t help but feel a bit overcome by its size as they get near enough to make out the details.

“This is she.” Maury slaps a hand against the hull, like a fond pat against the flank of an unconcerned steer. Carver stands perfectly still, heart in his throat. His eyes have fallen on the faded letters that adorn the dusty white prow, and they strike a bolt of recognition in him so sharply he can almost taste it.

“The _Leandra Sky_ ,” Fenris murmurs, hovering beside him like a shadow. “Did your mother tell you the name?”

“No. She didn’t say a word.” He reaches out, tentative, and brushes his fingertips along the flaking letters. His father had painted those words on, he’s sure of it. A shiver runs down his spine, and for the first time he realizes why his mother had been so adamant about retrieving the boat. It’s not just an object, but a memory given form, reclaiming a piece of their history that had been long thought lost.

“Does she sail?” Fenris asks, clearly seeing that Carver is beyond words at the moment.

“I believe so. Gave her a proper going-over when I heard you’d be coming, and to my eye she’s as ship-shape as they day they first put her in the water.” Maury rubs his thumb against her hull, gently this time. “We’d have to take her for a spin to be sure, of course. Do either of you sail?”

“Unfortunately not,” Carver grimaces, but Fenris clears his throat.

“I’ve had a bit of experience.”

“You _have_?”

“Don’t act so surprised, Hawke,” Fenris says with a smirk. “You know I have a plethora of skill sets. You’ve barely brushed the surface.”

“Well two out of three isn’t bad!” Maury declares, smiling hugely. Carver doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone who smiles so much or so sincerely. “It’s a bit late now, and you’ll be wanting to kip for a while after your trip, but tomorrow morning we can get started with lessons.”

Carver takes a deep breath, trying to take it all in. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this—keeping her all these years, and now teaching me to sail, and—”

“Oh, nonsense. It’s no trouble at all. Not for the son of Malcolm Hawke.” He smiles again, a bit more briefly and tersely than before, and sets about pulling a tarp over the yacht. “Go ahead and make yourselves at home, I’ve got a stew on the hob and the dog won’t bother you. I’ll be in in a moment, after I lock up.”

As eager as Carver is to actually see the _Leandra Sky_ in full daylight, and preferably with the Atlantic lapping at her hull, he knows his body is starting to wind down. It’s only three in the afternoon, but his body is telling him it’s more like eight in the evening, with a full eight hours of sitting on a plane under his belt. In silent accord, he and Fenris leave the hangar and make the walk to the house a little distance away. The dog, an old mutt with something German Shepherd-ish about his face, is snoozing on the front stoop when they arrive, and gives them no trouble except a few sniffs at their ankles. Inside is sparse but neatly kept, a bachelor’s residence. The walls are bare hewn wood, and the entire construction was clearly built by Maury himself. Carver wonders if Malcolm helped him, if his father’s handprints are still soaked into the walls and floorboards, the straight, square seams where each plane meets the next.

Maury returns in short order and offers them lager to go with their stew. Carver is starting to drift, muzzy with jet lag, but Fenris keeps up a quiet, rumbling conversation that moves through the room like a slow fog. There’s something familiar about it, the rise and fall of the voices, Maury’s Canadian accent with its smudged vowels and occasional slow chuckle, like he’s thinking about every word he speaks before he gives them voice. He has vague memories of this, he thinks; but before he can gather the wherewithal to explore them, Fen’s hand lands on his shoulder and jerks him awake.

“Time for bed, I think, Hawke.”

Maury grunts agreement and gets up to gather their dishes. “Probably a good idea. Let me just show you the guest room. Leandra said you wouldn’t mind bunking together?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Fenris says cheerfully, and they are directed to a back room where an unfolded futon awaits them, piled high with blankets and complete with a battered old barn cat snoozing at the foot. She looks up as they approach and chirrups in greeting, then slips out the door, clearly preferring the company of her master to strangers. Fen sets down his backpack and nudges Carver sidelong. “Don’t kick me in your sleep, all right?”

“I’ll do my best,” Carver says solemnly, and dumps his own bag onto the mattress to retrieve his sleep things.

Maury has left the wifi password sketched on a bit of paper on the nightstand, and while Fen takes a quick shower Carver plugs it into his phone to check his email. There’s one from Bethy, demanding all the details as soon as he lands—he fires off a quick apology and a promise to write her back in the morning—and, to his surprise, one from Felix.

_Hey Carver,_

_Hope you had a safe journey. I’m getting on a plane myself in an hour or so, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. I don’t generally enjoy flying. At least it’s only for a few hours, and Dad sprung for first class so I wouldn’t have to suffer cramped legs haha. I was hoping to see you before I left, but I understand the importance of what you’re doing. Beth showed up to see me off along with Dorian and Cullen, and she gave me the whole story. I hope you’ll send pictures when you can, I’d love to see the sailboat—Beth tells me it’s a yacht? Very impressive. Tell Fen I say hello, and try not to fall overboard while you’re learning to sail. I’d never let you live it down._

_Felix._

_PS: I’m bringing the little griffon you made me. I’ve decided it’s a good luck charm, and I’m going to keep it in my pocket wherever I go to remind me of home._

Carver looks at the email for a long while before deciding he’s too tired to reply right now. He might say something foolish in response. He turns his phone off and lays back on the futon just as Fenris returns from the bathroom. He must see something on Carver’s face, because he comes around to his side of the mattress and perches there, eyebrows raised.

“All right, Hawke?”

“Sure. Lots of things to sort through.” He very determinedly doesn’t look at his phone. He wishes he could have been there to see Felix off—it’s going to be a very long four months without him around—but such are the burdens of conflicting schedules. The griffon carving was farewell enough. “You? Not still airsick, are you?”

“I’ll survive,” Fenris says with a fleeting smile. “Rest up, tomorrow should be interesting.”

He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’m glad _you’ve_ sailed before, because I can’t imagine trying to sail across the Pond without you.”

“Why do you think I volunteered? And Maury will be with us, anyway. He’s a seasoned sailor, I don’t think he’ll lead us astray.”

“You know me, Fen. Always fucking things up at the last minute.”

Fenris grabs his wrist and pulls it away from his face, forcing him to make eye contact. “Hey. What’s this about?”

“I—nothing. Look, I’m bloody exhausted, can we save the Spanish Inquisition for tomorrow morning?”

“Hmph. Fine.” He stands, smoothing out the front of his tee shirt, and pads around to the other side of the futon on quiet cat feet. “Just trying to make sure you’re all right.”

“I am. I will be.” He stares at the ceiling. “He knew my dad, Fen. Maury.”

“So did your mother.”

“I know, but that’s different. Maury _grew up_ with him.” He huffs some kind of sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I had a million questions on the flight over and as soon as we landed they all went out of my head.”

“You have three weeks to remember them all,” Fenris reminds him gently. “And then the voyage itself.” A pause, and the light clicks off, leaving them in darkness. “Are you nervous?”

“About sailing across the Atlantic in that little cork?”

“It’s over eighteen meters long,” Fen reminds him dryly. “Quite a big cork.”

“I’m not nervous about _that_ part, really. I guess it’s not nerves so much as… this is Dad’s boat. I was… I was born on it. I probably sailed on it when I was a toddler, before they had to put it in storage.” He sighs, toes curling against the scratchy sheets. “I guess I can’t stop thinking about how our lives would be different, if Dad hadn’t died. If we would still have the boat at all, or if we would’ve had to sell it to pay for college. If we would’ve moved out of the trailer eventually and gotten a real house. If I ever would have seen London to begin with. If Dad would have taught me how to sail. Instead of…” He trails off, not really sure what he’s trying to say.

“Maury isn’t your father,” Fenris says after a while, astute as ever. “But he’s the closest thing. That’s bound to be… disconcerting.”

“Yeah. Disconcerting. How do you always seem to have the right words?”

“A lot of practice. I am the king of introspection.” There comes a gentle prod in its side. “Now go to sleep, Hawke. Give that overworked brain of yours a rest.”

Carver grunts in a passable imitation of irritability, and rolls over. He’s half-afraid he won’t be able to sleep, with his internal clock all thrown awry and his brain running at an impossibly fast clip trying to process the past few hours, but he lays there in the dark and quiet for only a few minutes before he’s dead to the world.

///

The next three weeks are the fastest of his life. The first few days are spent mostly on land, getting acquainted with the _Leandra Sky_ —her parts and pieces, refinishing her insides and repainting her outsides, learning the names of everything and promptly forgetting them, only to relearn them all the next day. By the end of the first week he feels entirely stupid; by the end of the second he feels like he’s hanging on by his fingernails. And then, somehow, miraculously, the end of the third week comes and he and Fenris take the _Leandra Sky_ up the coast and back by themselves, and no disasters befall them.

Maury takes them out for lobster at the nearest port town to celebrate, a tiny little seaside village called Haven, and declares them ready to set sail.

“Tomorrow?” Carver blurts, suddenly terrified. He’d known it was coming, but for all the days he’s spent at sea recently he can’t help but feel like he’s hardly scratched the surface. The voyage to follow is going to test everything he’s learned in the past month, and he doesn’t feel ready.

“We’ll wait a few more days,” Maury assures him benignly, dipping his lobster tail generously in butter. “Let everything kind of settle. I think perhaps tomorrow we’ll spend the night on the boat, take our shifts, figure out what works best for everyone. And then it’s London ho!”

Carver looks across the table to where Fenris is tucking into his own fish fry, licking grease off his fingertips contentedly. Fen gives him a faint, encouraging smile, and kicks him under the table. “Don’t tell me you don’t miss your mum, Hawke,” he says. “And Bethany has emailed you every day demanding details.”

“I think she’s jealous,” Carver admits, feeling a little guilty. “I wish she could have come with us.”

Maury claps him on the back. “You’ll be able to teach her all you know when you get back to London. Or Cornwall, is it? If she’s half as clever as you I’m sure she’ll pick it up in no time at all.”

“Half as clever? That girl is _twice_ as clever as this lug,” Fenris declares, too fondly for Carver to take offense. “Your birthday is coming up soon, isn’t it? Perhaps a trip to more southern climes as a celebration?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Carver admits. He thinks of sailing on the same boat they were born on twenty-seven years ago, and smiles. “That’s not a bad idea at all.”


	15. 15.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang goes to Greece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick note, I mention the Hanged Man as a pub in Cornwall in this chapter, and I know I've referred to it before in London so just roll with it... haha. Sorry for any confusion, perks of reading a WIP I guess.

Cornwall appears like a low grey fog against the horizon on the tenth day of sailing, just as the sun is turning past its zenith. Carver stares at it for a good long while just to make sure before calling _land ho_.

It’ll be another few hours before they make port, and Carver isn’t sure whether to be excited or reluctant. He feels a little bit of both. The past week and a half have felt almost sacred in a way he can’t explain, like a pilgrimage—maybe it’s in his blood, or maybe it’s all in his head, but a strange sort of calm has been weaving itself through him ever since they set sail. Maybe it’s the long-buried memories of his father piloting this very yacht, or maybe just the hard work and the sea air that send him to his bunk every night to sleep like a stone, but as England comes closer and closer, rimed with late-summer green and for once not beset by rainclouds, he almost feels like a different person. Or not a different person, exactly, but a more true version of himself, like layers of hard years and buried anger have been uprooted and peeled away to find someone gentler and more tender underneath.

The ocean gets choppy and surly as they near the mainland, close enough now that they can make out the little white houses of the fishing village where Blackwall used to live, and he’s too busy following Maury’s barked orders and fussing with the ropes to keep a weather eye on the jetty. But then the _Leandra Sky_ is gliding in to dock and kissing up against the pier, as gently as a mother to a babe, and he realizes they have a welcoming party.

“You’re alive!” Bethy shouts, already dashing across the wooden dock to meet them. Leandra and Marian follow behind, slightly more dignified, and Anders trawls beside them like a half-forgotten footnote. Suddenly blazingly happy to see them, Carver vaults over the rail with maybe just a little bit of cavalier showmanship and scoops Bethy into his arms.

“Of course we’re alive!” he says, smothering her head with kisses. The dock seems to lurch under him and he sets her down, hanging onto her shoulders for stability.

“Easy, sailor,” she laughs. “You’ve still got your sea legs on.”

A rope thwaps him in the back of the head. “Tie us up, son,” Maury tells him, and winks. “Leandra, my god, you haven’t aged a day.”

“Hush yourself, Maury Carver, you’re as terrible a liar as the first time I met you.” Leandra shades her hand against the sun, smiling, and then her eyes fall on Carver just as he straightens from lashing the rope about a mooring post. Her smile drops off so quickly it gives him whiplash. “Carver…”

“Mum?” He takes a tentative step toward her and pauses when he sees the moisture gathering in her eyes. “Mum, what’s wrong?”

She comes to stand in front of him and puts her hands to either side of his face, fingers brushing across the short beard that’s grown in since setting sail. He hasn’t had the time or inclination to shave, or even look in the mirror properly, and he’s wondering if that might have been a mistake. “I’m sorry for scaring you, love, it’s nothing. I promise. It’s only…” She catches her lip between her teeth and shakes her head, pulling him into a hug. “You look just like your father.”

He squeezes her tightly, trading baffled looks with Bethany over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’ll shave it off and soon as I can.”

“No, goodness, there’s no need for that. It just gave me a turn, that’s all.” She pulls back, smiling and dabbing at her eyes. “You look quite dashing.”

“Er, thanks.” He rubs at the scruff on his chin, a little stiff with salt. He can feel the sting of windburn on the tops of his cheeks where there was no hair to protect it, and reckons he’ll let it grow a little while longer. “Hey Mare. Didn’t expect to see you. Or any of you, really.”

“Well, here we are,” Marian says dryly. “Do I get a hug, too?”

He acquiesces, gracefully he thinks, and one at a time Maury and Fenris make their way to the dock for their own reunions. Maury hugs Leandra almost as tightly as Carver had and immediately starts rambling about Carver’s sailing prowess, which he tunes out; Fenris slips around the edges of their little group and slips his hand into Anders’, tipping his head up to exchange quiet words that Carver can’t make out. He turns away and slings his arm around Bethy’s slim shoulders. “So, what do you think?”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, eyes traveling from bow to stern and back again. “It’s… bigger than I thought it would be. Can we go aboard?”

“Yes of course—”

“Carver, Bethany!” Leandra calls, interrupting them. The entire group has moved a little ways along the pier toward the shore while he wasn’t watching, and they appear to be waiting for them. “We’re going to get something to eat and then come back to put her to berth properly.”

“Oh,” Bethy says, quietly disappointed. She squeezes Carver’s hand. “Can we take her out for a little bit before we head back home? It seems so sad to just… leave her here. By herself.”

“She’s been under a tarp in the corner of a barn for decades,” he reminds her, steering her back toward the others. “And then a ten-day voyage across the Atlantic. Let’s give her some time to rest, yeah? We can come visit on weekends.”

“It’ll be winter soon, though,” she says glumly, scuffing her heels against the wet stone as the wooden pier turns to cement and then to gravel up on land. “And then we won’t be able to use her at all.”

“Well,” Carver says, and stops. He has a bit of a wild idea, and he’s not sure how far to take it. “I was thinking, for our birthday, we could take her south. The Mediterranean, maybe.”

“Ooh!” She lights up like a firecracker and slings her arm through his. “Can we? Is that allowed?”

“We need to figure out permits and things, I think,” he says, scratching his head with his free hand. He’s had a few sponge baths on the _Leandra Sky_ , but he still feels grimy and tacky with salt. Ugh. “Right now I’m more concerned with food. And a shower. And sleeping in a real bed. Maybe then we can work out the details?”

“Deal.” She pats his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. You did the grunt work bringing her here, let me be the brains of the operation.”

“You’re _always_ the brains of the operation,” he reminds her, provoking a peal of laughter that turns their mother’s head back in their direction. She’s walking along beside Maury with Fen and Anders just beside, their heads bent together, and Carver thinks she looks like she’s shed nearly a decade of care in the presence of her old friend. He waves his fingers at her. “Bethy, what do you think of Maury?”

“Maury? I mean, I’ve barely met him. Why?”

“Do you think he and mother…”

Bethany cranes her neck to stare at him. “Carver, seriously? They’re old friends, they haven’t seen each other in years. They’re just reliving the old days, or something. It’s probably like getting a little bit of Dad back.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”

“Not like _that_ ,” she laughs. “What’s to worry about, anyway? You think Mum’s too old to date or something?”

“What? No, I just—eurgh, no, I don’t want to talk about it. Or think about it. I’m vetoing this conversation.”

Bethy snorts. “Whatever you say. And don’t worry. I think Mum’s content just as she is, she told me so herself. I was a little… concerned, recently.”

“ _Concerned_? And you didn’t tell me?”

“You had enough on your plate. _Have_ enough on your plate.” She jostles his arm sternly. “Like I said. Nothing to worry about. I had a conversation with her about it because I was curious, and she said she was content as she was and didn’t feel the need to have a man around the house, ah… what were her exact words? _Getting underfoot and making a nuisance of himself_. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Carver huffs, but doesn’t have it in him to be offended. He’s too relieved—thinking about his Mum dating is just… weird. He would be supportive of course, obviously. Clearly. But it would still be weird. “Can I ask who?”

“Who what?”

“I mean, you said you were concerned. There must have been somebody for you to be concerned _about_.”

Bethy clears her throat and lowers her voice even further, even though the rest of them are far enough ahead that they have no hope of overhearing their conversation. “Varric.”

“What the _fuck_?” he exclaims, loud enough that Fen turns his head and gives him a querying look. He waves him off and ducks his head into the collar of his windbreaker, clearing his throat. “Are you serious? Isn’t he like half her age?”

“No! He’s forty-five, Carv, not even ten years younger. And when you’re older, you know, that doesn’t matter so much. But _anyway_ , like I said, it’s not happening. At least not for a long time.”

Carver groans. “Bethyyyy…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything, clearly.” She sniffs, but  he can tell she’s laughing at him. “You have to promise not to bring it up, though, okay? I don’t think I was supposed to say anything. Girl talk and all that.”

“Ah yes, the sanctity of the mother-daughter code of secrecy,” Carver intones, and he gets an elbow in the ribs for his trouble. “Ow! Christ, fine, I’ll shut up now.” On cue, his stomach burbles. “I’m starving, how far away is this place?”

“I think we’re nearly there.” She tugs him down a narrow side street after the others, the old houses close enough that Carver feels a little claustrophobic after so long the open sea. Ahead of them a sign swings off the side of a pub, written in curling gold script. Carver squints, trying to make it out, but Bethany beats him to the punch. “The Hanged Man. Charming.”

“Blackwall highly recommended it,” Anders says. They’ve caught up to the rest, and he’s holding the door to let them in. “He said the proprietor isn’t always the friendliest, but the food is fantastic and they keep good beer on tap.”

“That’s all I need,” Carver declares, suddenly salivating for a pint. “Lead on.”

///

“What are you still doing here?”

Felix looks up from his work, glasses slipping down his nose; when he pushes them back up, Doctor Chevin is hovering in the doorway, a slight smile on her lips. “I just wanted to get through a few more of these—”

“No need. The scans will still be waiting for you a week from now.” She gestures with one pale, slim hand. “Put a note with your name attached, if you like, and no one will touch them in your absence.”

“Right.” He does as she asked, glancing regretfully one last time of the printouts of the scans he’d done at the dig site yesterday, and tucks them into a file folder. “Are you leaving soon?”

“I’ll be staying in the area, but I will be doing a great deal less work with no students underfoot.” Her eyes twinkle and she stands aside, holding the door open for him. They walk down the hall together side by side and step out of the Minrathuous Archeology Institute doors and into the bright Mediterranean sunshine. “You have plans for the break, do you not, Felix?”

“That’s right. A friend of mine—Dorian Pavus, you might know him?”

“The history and linguistics professor? I have not had the pleasure, but I have read some of his work and I am quite impressed. He is a bright young man.”

“He is,” Felix agrees. “He’s taking a sabbatical this semester, actually, and he’s been traveling all over doing research for his next project, but he’s taking a week off from that to come here. I think we’ll do some sightseeing around, maybe tour some islands—he’s been very secretive, I think he’s planning something, but I’m happy to go along with it. His ideas are almost always good ones.”

“Then I wish you best of luck, and have fun,” Fiona says, shaking his hand as they arrive at the split in the path that will take them in separate directions. “I look forward to seeing you again when we start again in two weeks.”

“Yes, madame,” Felix says politely. “ _Merci_.”

“ _De rien_ , Felix.”

He heads toward his own quarters, a small section of the graduate housing set aside for the students on the dig, jingling his keys in his pocket. Dorian is supposed to arrive today sometime—likely this evening, as the ferry to the island can be patchy when undergraduate glasses aren’t in session—but he was hoping to at least get a text from him. It’s part of the reason why he stayed so late in the lab. Last night he’d cleaned his little dorm room from top to bottom, even though it was already neat as a pin, and there’s nothing more to do back there except wait. And maybe pack, but considering he has no idea what Dorian’s plans are he doesn’t want to start that yet.

He reaches the graduate housing, a long, single-storey building with brilliant whitewashed walls and every door painted a different color. His door is a pure, scintillating blue, the color found right where the azure ocean meets the hazy midafternoon sky on the horizon line—and it’s ajar. His heart stutters in his chest and he skips forward the last few steps, flinging it open.

“Dorian!”

“There you are, goodness,” Dorian drawls, peeking over the edge of a magazine he’d snagged from Felix’s bedside. “What took you so long?” He’s sprawled on the twin mattress with his ankles crossed delicately—at least he’d taken his shoes off first—and Felix is embarrassed to note that the magazine is the copy of _OUT!_ from the early spring. The issue with Cullen and Dorian, and…. Carver. He clears his throat and puts his hands on his hips, resorting to mock irritation to cover his mortification.

“You should have messaged me, you tit! I would have come right over, I was just killing time. Come on, get your feet off the bloody duvet.”

“Oof.” Dorian lets him pull his legs off the bed and stands up, tossing the magazine onto the bedspread. Felix hides his wince in the shoulder of Dorian’s sport jacket as they embrace. “Fine, fine, I apologize. I wanted to surprise you, that’s all.”

“You _did_ surprise me, I suppose,” Felix allows, pulling away and eyeing Dorian’s outfit skeptically. “Aren’t you melting in that? These rooms don’t have A/C, you realize.”

“Yes, I did realize.” Dorian plucks at the front of his shirt, which sports a few damp patches. “But here’s the problem. My luggage has been… delayed.”

Felix stares at him. “Delayed.”

“Yes, it didn’t make it on my plane and all I’ve got is my carryon, which… is full of dirty laundry.”

“Dorian Pavus, are you seriously asking me do wash your dirty pants for you?”

“No! God, no, Alexius, don’t be silly. I’m asking…” He hesitates, drawing out the last syllable with a serpentine side-eye that Felix knows well. “…if you’d like to go shopping.”

Felix sighs gustily. “And what are you going to do with all your new things once your luggage _does_ arrive?”

“Oh, I’ll figure something out, I’m sure. But it does mean we’ll want to catch the last ferry off the island in, hmm, twenty minutes?”

Felix looks around. “I haven’t even started packing, I don’t know what—”

“Don’t be silly, it’s only for a week or two, we can get you some new things to tide you over. Grab your toiletries and we’ll be off, I’ve already booked us a nice hotel for the night until we…” he trails off again, enigmatic, “decide on our itinerary.”

Which is how Felix finds himself crammed in between Dorian and the bulwark not quite an hour later, watching the mainland growing closer and greener in the distance. The sun is starting to set, but the sky hasn’t yet grown dim, just tinged at the edges with the first smoke of plum. The wind is a little bit crisp as they disembark, and Felix pulls his hoodie a closer around his frame. “Are we _walking_ to the hotel?” he asks, bafflement turning to disconcertion as Dorian turns along the pier, making no attempt to call a cab. White sand crisps underfoot and Dorian smiles, unconcerned. 

“We’ll get there, don’t worry. I thought we could grab a bite to eat first. There’s a gorgeous Turkish fusion place that I’ve heard comes highly recommended.”

Felix shakes his head. “I’m not exactly dressed for a nice dinner, Dorian.”

“Oh pish, it’s hardly that. The seating is on the boardwalk. This is a tourist town, for goodness sake. Minrathuous, city of middle-class European holiday-goers. Yes. Quite illustrious. But it has its charms, if you know where to look.”

“You’re acting _very_ strangely, Dorian,” Felix says as they fall in with the slow trawl of people moving up and down the boardwalk. “What are you scheming?”

“I’m not _scheming_ anything!” Dorian cries with mock offense, one hand to his breast. “Goodness, Fee, you’d think I’d led you into many a troublesome pickle before.”

“Funny, because you have,” Felix says, but Dorian’s words have the desired effect: he’s no longer anxious. He and Dorian have always been thick as thieves, and however much trouble they got into over the years, Dorian was always there to get him out again, without fail, even if it meant taking the fall himself. “All right, keep your secrets then. How much farther is this restaurant? I’m starving.”

It’s not far, and Dorian—always planning ahead—has already made reservations, so they’re seated without a fuss. Felix can’t pronounce the name of what he orders, but there are figs and goat cheese and a hundred different kinds of spices, so he’s happy. 

The hotel Dorian has booked is a smaller local establishment rather than one of the huge skyscraper-style hotels. The walls of their double room are painted a salmon-rose color that matches the sunset they’d watched over dinner, and the shower is cramped but hot, and when Felix emerges Dorian has somehow, magically, produced a fresh tee-shirt and some trousers in his size for tomorrow. He puts on a pair of his own pants (clean, one of the essentials he’d thrown in a satchel on his way out the door) and crawls into bed, and is out like a light.

Morning finds them at a café overlooking the marina. Felix still feels odd in his “borrowed” clothes, which he’s sure are just proof of Dorian’s eerily uncanny foresight, but Dorian has promised a proper shopping trip after breakfast, so he tries to content himself with that. The tee is black and distressed, subtly _punk_ in a way that Felix doesn’t normally go for, and the olive trousers are snug enough he feels like he’s constantly checking his front to make sure his bollocks aren’t outlined against the fabric. Dorian is oblivious to his discomfort, or just ignoring it—he’s always said that Felix doesn’t make the most of his “physique,” whatever that means. Felix usually sees himself as “weedy,” although self-defense classes have helped with that. He pokes guiltily at his midsection, which has softened a bit since he came to Greece. Too much good food and not enough discipline.

“Felix!”

He jerks his head up and folds his hands around his espresso cup guiltily. “Yes?”

“I was just saying, if you’re hot you should roll up the ankles of those.” He nudges Felix’s calf with his toe, which is clad in an elegant white boat shoe that Felix reckons cost more than he wants to think about. “It’s all the rage right now.”

“How very Victorian,” Felix drawls, but he props his leg up on the opposite thigh and rolls the cuffs up a few discreet inches, thin and a little bit lopsided the way Dorian directs him. His well-worn navy Keds aren’t much to look at, but he _does_ feel better with a slight breeze wafting around his ankles. He sits back in the wrought-iron chair and sighs, tipping his head back to let the balmy morning breeze caress his clean-shaven cheeks.

“Isn’t it nice to be on holiday?” Dorian remarks after a little while.

“Very nice. What about you? Is it nice to sit still for once and not be running thither and yon to every library under the sun?”

Dorian cracks a laugh, head thrown back and his coffee slopping a little on his wrist. “Ah, dammit! Yes, it’s quite nice. I feel as if I haven’t sat still in weeks.”

While Dorian pats himself dry with a napkin, Felix casts his eyes across the marina, which is only moderately busy at this time of day. Lots of fishing boats cluster toward the edges, just returning from their predawn foraging, and a few designer yachts lurk like heavy white swans, sprouting antennae and garnished with the veneer of wealth. Farther out, a gorgeous sailboat sits with its wings furled, its hull a gleaming eggshell white and its hardwood decks trimmed in an aged emerald green. He nudges Dorian under the table with his foot.

“What do you think of going sailing? There must be boats for rent down there.”

Dorian shudders. “You know I don’t like the ocean, Felix.”

“You seemed to handle the ferry all right yesterday.”

“That’s because it wasn’t even half an hour, and the water was calm. All I had to do was close my eyes, breathe in the fragrant aroma of petrol, and pretend I was at home in London, stuck in rush hour traffic with the windows down.” He smirks, and gazes across the marina like a benevolent god. “But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go down and have a look. Maybe one of those big ones would be acceptable, if we kept close to shore. I have so been dying to swim, the beaches here are exquisite.”

Felix’s eyes fall on the sailboat again. He’s not really sure _sailboat_ is the proper word—it’s massive, not as big as the fancy yachts pulled up closer to the shore, but still sizeable; with her sails unfurled, he has no doubt she’d appear even larger. People move about her deck at a leisurely pace, seeming to enjoy the morning the same way he and Dorian are. He glances away, not wanting to be too much of a voyeur, but something keeps drawing his gaze back. There’s something… _familiar_ about her, which is ridiculous. He knows he’s never laid eye on her in his life.

As he watches, an older woman with a chin-length grey bob walks along the pier toward the boat in question, arm-in-arm with a taller, slimmer young woman with a shock of black hair. They’re dressed similarly for the weather, in flowy skirts and flat sandals, and there’s something about them that tells Felix they’re related. Mother and daughter, perhaps. They’re too far away for him to catch the details of their faces, or the sound of their voices, but the mother throws her head back and laughs, and it carries faintly across the water like a distant bell.

The chair across the table scrapes, and Dorian finds his feet, tucking a wad of cash in with the bill that was laid on their table some time ago. Felix hastens to join him. “Shall we take a turn about the docks, then?” he says, slipping his wallet into his back pocket. “At the very least we can look at the boats, some of them seem quite pretty.”

“All right,” Felix says. He drains his espresso, head back with the sun bursting in his eyes, leaving spots behind, and together they walk down to the docks, shoes scuffing against the stairs and their elbows brushing companionably. Technically it’s the off-season—summer has turned to golden autumn back in England, and fall break isn’t for another two weeks there—so the level of tourists is low, and after a month and a bit living here Felix feels more like a natural part of the landscape than a visitor. Dorian, of course, sticks out like a sore thumb, but that’s just Dorian.

They stop to chat with a local fisherman, Felix testing his limited knowledge of Greek and Dorian proving fluent, and after a few minutes of halting semi-translation Felix lets them go, letting the half-familiar words wash over him. A few hundred paces away is the sailboat from before, even prettier close up, and he takes it in with just a spark of envy. He’s always wanted to learn to sail, but time and circumstance has never perfectly aligned to make it happen. Maybe he’s over-romanticizing it, but the thought of being free to travel the seas without anything to fence him in has always appealed.

As he watches, a slim, white-haired figure appears at the rail, balanced precariously near the long pole sticking out in front—the bowsprit, maybe? He doesn’t know very much about boats—and loops a rope around their wrist, doing something with the folded-up sails that he can’t quite make out. Felix narrows his eyes. A lazy spiral of recognition is blooming in his breast, but it keeps sliding just out reach.

Across the water comes a shout, suddenly: “Fen! Toss it here, would you?” The figure turns his back and makes a long, graceful movement with his arm, and the rope sails across to the other side of the deck where Felix can’t see. Even at this distance he can make out the white, spiraling lines inked into the man’s dark skin, but he can’t quite make his brain accept that it’s Fenris. How _could_ it be Fenris? Why on earth would he be _here_ , in Greece, at this exact time in this exact harbor?

He spins around, grabbing an unsuspecting Dorian by the arm and startling him out of his velvet flow of Greek. “Dorian, what is going on? What have you done?”

“What do you mean what have I done?” Dorian says, shrill with the kind of false innocence that Felix has always been able to spot at a hundred paces. “I haven’t done anything, as we established last night.”

“You’re a bloody liar,” Felix tells him, politely for the sake of the fisherman who is looking between them with wide eyes and high, bristling brows. He releases Dorian and gives him a firm pat—more of a slap under the guise of good manners—and walks a few paces down the dock for a better look. If only he could make out the boat’s name… but there’s another little boat in the way, blocking her stern, and even balanced at the end of the pier he can’t get a proper look.

“Don’t fall into the water, Felix!” Dorian calls to him. “I’m not jumping in after you.”

“Fuck off,” Felix replies, but the words die in his throat when a very familiar figure suddenly appears at the stern. It’s Carver, or at least he thinks it is—broad and pale, shirtless, his skin almost milky against the vibrant blues and greens of the mainland, with his hair grown into long unruly curls and his face partially hidden by a healthy growth of beard that Felix doesn’t recognize. He’s got the rope Fenris threw him earlier, and he’s busily knotting it in place when he glances up by chance and their eyes lock.

Felix is struck dumb, and all the air leaves his chest in a rush. It’s definitely him. Even at this distance, the dazzling blue of his eyes is unmistakable. Carver frowns, and he can see him saying something— _what the fuck?_ —and he leans a little further over the rail, blinking as if to chase off a conjured phantom.

Felix takes a breath to yell at Dorian again, and it fizzles and dies in his throat when Carver suddenly pinwheels his arms, torso pitching back and forth. Almost too quickly for Felix’s eye to follow, he loses his balance and pitches over the side—he can hear the _thunk_ of him clipping the dock on the way down, followed by the crash of water rising up and slapping back down against the hull of the boat. Cold terror overwhelms him and he’s kicked off his shoes and is half out of his trousers before he has time to think.

“Felix, what—?” Dorian starts, but he’s down to his pants and diving into the water without stopping to explain.

Underwater is a mess of weeds and dock poles scummy with green growth. He squints his eyes just the slightest bit open so that his lashes keep out the worst of the sting, and follows the stream of creamy white bubbles. Fish scatter out of his way as he navigates the underwater jungle, propelling himself faster by grabbing the dock pinions and pushing off—the water isn’t terribly deep, but it’s thick and soupy with pollution this close to shore, and the green rays of sun cutting through do little to illuminate his path.

Then he spots him. Not entire unconscious, it seems, Carver’s legs kick weakly as he tries to reorient himself. Felix releases a stream of bubbles, almost dizzy with relief, and swims close enough to wrap his arms around Carver’s torso from behind. Together they kick toward the surface, Carver’s weight dragging only a little bit against their momentum. Then there’s another burst of bubbles and Fenris is there, grabbing Carver’s free arm, and between the three  of them they break the surface in a rush of light and water.

Hands reach down for them from the dock, coming from every direction, and Felix releases Carver to their grip. Someone’s hand hooks under his arm and he grabs the edge of the dock. He coughs a bit, gasping, but he’s breathing steadily, on his hands and knees while he listens to Carver hacking and choking a short distance away. _He’s all right. He’ll be all right._

“Felix!” Dorian shouts. Felix turns his head, wiping his cheek on his bicep, and watches Dorian racing down the pier as quick as his little boat shoes will carry him. “Jesus Christ, are you all right? Do you need your inhaler?”

He’s got it in his hand, Felix sees now; he must have fished it out of the pocket of his trousers, which are still piled in a heap a few docks away, forlorn. Felix shakes his head and sits back on his heels, suddenly painfully aware that he’s surrounded by strangers in nothing but a pair of wet pants. _Thank god they’re black boxer briefs_. “I’m fine. But I think Carver might need the inhaler.”

“He’s fine,” Fenris pronounces, crouched at Carver’s side with a hand on his heaving chest. “He’s just being overdramatic.”

“Overdramatic?” Carver’s mum exclaims in a voice made shrill with fear. “He could have drowned!”

“We have a doctor on board,” Fenris says calmly, but there’s a flicker in his face that Felix recognizes as well-hidden terror. He _had_ been afraid. They all had.

Felix backs away, trying to make room for the others—he recognizes Bethany with a pang of relief, and Anders, all of them crowding close beside Leandra—but Carver turns his head and looks at him, and he freezes. There’s a trickle of blood sliding pinkish down the side of his face from a cut in his hair, but his pupils look normal, if a little unfocused as he takes a wheezing breath.

“Are you a mermaid?”

Fenris snorts, and Felix feels himself blush at the odd question. Behind him, voice laced with amusement, Dorian says, “I think _merman_ is the word you’re searching for.”

“I think you should lay down for a little while, Carver,” Anders says, effectively dispelling all the gazes pinned on Felix. “And no more falling off of boats for a little while, yeah?”

Dorian bends to help Felix to his feet, and he realizes a small crowd has gathered, locals and a handful of tourists circling like vultures to scrounge pieces of the drama. He hunches his shoulders instinctively and is about to ask Dorian why the _hell_ he left his clothes on the other side of the marina when Bethany appears at his side, blessedly familiar and bearing a towel.

“Thank you so much for what you did,” she says, smiling when he snatches it up and wraps it around himself as quickly as possible. “Please, come on board and dry off—I can get you tea or something to warm you up while Dorian gets your things.”

“Sounds perfect,” Dorian says, and whisks away before Felix can even speak.

“Um,” he says. “Thank you. That would be… nice.”

A few minutes later finds him ensconced on the deck of the _Leandra Sky_ , bundled in towels and cupping a hot mug of tea in his hands as he listens to Bethany chatter away about everything he’s missed since coming to Greece.  Leandra Hawke and Anders have disappeared into the hold to fuss over Carver, but Fenris remains behind, along with a woman he assumes must the third Hawke sibling: the eldest, with the same shock of dark hair and stubborn chin, although her eyes are gold and her nose, appropriately, more hawkish.

She introduces herself as Marian in a smoky, self-satisfied alto, and watches him in an uncannily intense way that he’s not sure he likes. But Beth seems oblivious, and Fenris is calm like he always is, so Felix forces himself to relax in their presence until Dorian returns and he can finally dress himself again.

He’s in Beth’s cabin, head ducked to avoid the low ceiling, when a tap comes on the door. He finishes buttoning the trousers and pads to the door barefoot to find Anders there, stooped even lower and bearing a gift. “An extra layer, since you seemed cold,” he says, passing over a soft burgundy hoodie with the logo for Blackwall and Stroud’s inked onto the back. “It’s Carver’s—I figured he owed you one or two,” he says, and ducks out again.

Alone, feeling foolish—but not foolish enough to stop himself doing it—Felix lifts the garment to his nose and breaths in. It smells like he remembers, sawdust and evergreen and a little bit of good, clean sweat, but it also smells like the sea. Musty, a little salty, not quite fishy but like a fresh wind over a low tideline. He squeezes the fabric in his hands, chest tight, and pulls it over his head. It’s a little roomy, particularly in the shoulders, and it feels like being held. Comforted. He wraps the sleeves around his chilly fingers and forges back up into the sunlight.

Dorian is talking happily with Fenris when he emerges on deck, but he peels away upon spotting Felix and claps him on the shoulder. “Feeling better? You certainly look cozy enough, now—I suppose this is one way to get a boat tour, hmm?”

Felix bares his teeth in a parody of a smile and drags Dorian a little ways away, pretending to look over the rail where they can’t be overheard. “All right, you sneak, what have you done? Did you— _arrange_ this somehow, or is this some kind of freakish coincidence?”

Dorian scoffs, but there’s a twinkle in his eye and eventually Felix glares hard enough to pry the truth out of him. “Of course I arranged it, my dear,” Dorian says, lips twitching. _He is so bloody pleased with himself_. “I know you’ve been missing London and your friends there, so I decided to bring London to you. Or some small part of it, anyway, Gereon was unfortunately too busy to come along.”

“But… why? I mean, Carver obviously didn’t even know I was _here_ , he fell off the bloody boat he was so surprised to see me. And Leandra? Marian? They barely know me. They’re only in Greece because they’re celebrating the twins’ birthday, they don’t want to spend time with a total stranger.”

“Well it’s not _all_ about you,” Dorian allows. “The _are_ here on holiday, first and foremost. But Bethany and I thought it would be a nice surprise if we kept it on the down-low, so to speak.”

“Oh, so Bethany is in on this, too. Who else? And why do I get the feeling that this about more than just _bringing London to me_?”

“I believe Fenris was part of the planning process. It was a very meticulous operation to pull off, Fee, I’d have thought you’d be more impressed.” He’s got his wounded face on, now, as if he doesn’t know exactly what Felix is accusing him of.

He wants to tell him off for it, properly, but he doesn’t have the gumption to actually use the word _matchmaking_ out loud. Especially not here, within earshot of so many potentially wagging tongues. He sighs, feeling at a loss, and then Dorian’s eyes slide somewhere behind him and he claps Felix briefly on the shoulder. “Be right back.” And he’s gone.

Felix turns to follow his progress, mouth half-open in protest, and all his words shrivel and die when he sees Carver coming toward him, still bare-chested— _dear god have mercy—_ and holding an ice pack to his head. He comes up to Felix and stares at him, oddly intent. Felix waits. Carver clears his throat. “You shaved your beard,” he says accusingly, and it’s so incongruous that Felix giggles.

“And gave it to you, apparently.” His eyes roam Carver’s face briefly, appreciatively—the beard really does suit him. “When did that happen?”

“Oh, I don’t know, a few months ago. Immediately after you left.” He rubs his chin, producing a bristly sound. His eyes seem bluer, now, or maybe that’s just the backdrop of the ocean and sky. “Listen, um… thank you. For, y’know, saving me from drowning.”

“I think you would’ve been all right,” Felix says, smiling. “Fenris would have rescued you.”

“Still. You were quicker. So just take the bloody compliment, all right?”

He grins. “Fair enough. Bethany tells me you’re here on holiday to celebrate your birthdays?”

“That’s right. It was her idea, mainly—she and Fen did most of the planning, I just sailed the boat.”

“Your father’s boat, yeah?” Felix asks, even though he knows the answer. “She’s gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Carver beams, pleased as a little boy who’s been told _good job_. “Do you know much about boats? I could give you a tour, if you like.”

“I don’t know much at all,” he admits, silently cursing his ignorance. “But I would love a tour anyway, if you don’t mind giving one to an ignorant landlubber. That is—are you okay to be up and about? Shouldn’t you be lying down?”

“Oh, I’m all right. I just clipped my head on the side as I was going down, missed the dock entirely. I’m on an ice schedule, but Anders said I’m okay to be walking around. Just no jumping off the side any time soon.”

As if on cue, Anders pokes his head out of the hatch and calls, “Ice off, Carver! Ten minutes!”

“See? I’ve got a bloody flock of nannies to make sure I don’t do myself lasting harm.” He tilts his head, indicating the way, and Felix falls in alongside him, deciding to give in to the surreality of the day.

Carver takes him all around the deck, pointing out the parts he thinks Felix will recognize. He has a little story for each one— _this rope broke on our trip across the Atlantic and Fenris had to climb out onto the bowsprit to reattach it_ , or _I slipped down these stairs when we were doing repairs in Cornwall and sprained my wrist_ —and Felix is utterly delighted to listen to every single one. It isn’t until the main cabin tours are done and Carver is showing him the “crew accommodations” where he, Fenris, and Anders bunk on their shift rotations that he starts to flag. Felix makes him sit on the edge of his bunk and puts the ice back to his head, swallowing back his worry with humor.

“You’re sure you’re okay? If you’ll recall, you _did_ ask me if I was a mermaid.”

Carver ducks his head. It’s too dim down here to see if he’s blushing, but Felix would put money on it anyway. “Yeah, that was… stupid of me. I just hadn’t been expecting to see you _at all_ , and when you pulled me out of the water, right after I’d hit my head—well, it was very fairy tale-esque, no offense.”

“None taken,” Felix assures him, and he hides his nervously twisting fingers in the front pocket of his borrowed hoodie. “I’m just glad you’re not seriously injured. But maybe you should take a break. Let’s go back up to the deck and you can lay down and let your family fawn over you for a little while.”

“Oh god. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less,” Carver jokes, but he lets Felix get a hand under his arm and help him up from the bunk. “So are you… on holiday?” he hedges as they make their slow, hobbling way to the steps, which are more like a ladder with extra-wide wooden rungs. “I mean, you’re supposed to be on a dig, right?”

“That’s right. The university takes an early fall break, the same time as Calenhad U. That’s why Dorian’s here, too. He wanted to make sure I… what did he say? That I didn’t _squander my weeks off sitting in a library by myself._ ”

Carver laughs, letting Felix coax him up the ladder first. “Is that what you would have done?”

“Probably,” he admits. There’s a lull in the conversation as they climb out onto the deck, and when they arrive, Fenris and Anders appear to be making castoff preparations and Dorian is nowhere to be seen.

“He’s getting your things from the hotel,” Bethany explains, appearing to hook her arm through Felix’s. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve decided you’re going to stay with us for a few days, on the _Sky_.”

Felix’s heart gives a little excited leap. “Really? Dorian was okay with that? Only he’s not normally a fan of boats.”

“He said as long as we stayed out of rough water he could tolerate it,” Bethy laughs. “Which we will do our best to accommodate. And we have plenty of room—you and Dorian will have to bunk together, and Mare will move into my room, but it’s not a hardship. Say you will? It would be so much fun to have you along!”

“It sounds like everything’s been arranged,” Felix says helplessly, looking across the top of her head to try and interpret Carver’s expression. He looks a bit like he’s trying to hide just how pleased he is by the idea, which is all the affirmation Felix needs. “I’d be happy to stay. Perhaps I can get in a few sailing lessons while I’m here.”

“Excellent! Oh it’s so much fun, and Fenris is very patient. He’s a very good teacher. Just don’t ask Carver to show you anything, he gets grumpy when you need to hear things more than once, and he mumbles when he talks.”

“I do not!” Carver protests weakly.

“Yes you do, silly, now go sit down before you fall down. We’re setting sail soon.”

“Where to?” Felix asks, watching Carver peel away reluctantly to sit in the bow near his mother and older sister. “Anywhere in particular?”

Bethany’s eyes twinkle impishly. “Wherever the wind takes us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a tiny bit shorter than usual, but it felt like a good place to end. next chapter will more than make up for it!


	16. 16.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felix and Carver start to come to terms with their feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real warnings for this chapter except alcohol consumption and stupid fluffy improbability.

 

The winds take them south and east into the islands of Par Vollen, a small archipelago off of Crete with calm, translucent waters and nights full of sparkling stars. The first two days feel like a dream; Carver catches himself constantly looking over his shoulder, never quite sure if Felix is going to be there or not. But he always is.

By the second day, Felix’s stubble has grown back in, and he looks more like the Felix he remembers meeting in London: refined, but a little bit rough around the edges. He looks like he belongs on ships. Perhaps he has pirates in his ancestry, Carver thinks idly as he watches him screwing around with Bethany in the shallows. They’ve dropped anchor just offshore one of the little islands, small enough that it doesn’t even have a proper jetty on this side, just a wooden dock running off into the reef before ending like a half-formed thought. But it doesn’t much matter—they’ve all been living in their swim trunks lately anyway, and Leandra is content to sun herself on the deck, so instead of getting out the ‘gangplank,’ as Bethany affectionately calls it, they just take turns hopping over the side and swimming to shore as the urge takes them.

Carver is lingering on deck, today, a little groggy from his afternoon nap. His mother is snoozing in a deck chair and Anders and Fenris are below getting up to god knows what, leaving him, for all intents and purposes, alone. He won’t admit he’s taking the opportunity to admire more than just the scenery.

On shore, Dorian and Mare have wandered farther inland in search of coconuts, but on the beach, Bethany and Felix seem to be fluctuating between building a sand castle and looking for interesting rocks and shells that roll up with every lazy lap of the tide. Bethany looks radiant, of course, with her cheeks apple-red and her short brown bob all abluster, but she’s not the one drawing his eye like steel to a magnet. Through his sunglasses, Felix is brown and smooth and full of life, his raucous giggles carrying across the water whenever Bethany tells an inappropriate joke—he knows that’s the kind she’s telling, because she’s got that twisty half-smile that she always wears whenever the two of them get into mischief that they shouldn’t. His swim trunks are pale powder-blue and a little too short, after the local fashion, short enough that almost the entire length of his thigh is bared to Carver’s gaze.

Or anyone’s gaze, he amends to himself, but it’s a weak protest. He knows he’s staring. He can’t help himself. Felix is so _bright_. Like a sun, he seems to eclipse every beautiful thing—or not eclipse, exactly, but enhance. And Carver knows that without Felix there, the endlessly blue skies and the white beaches and the verdant green islands would be like looking at a painting. Pretty, vibrant, but not quite real. Somehow, Felix makes them real. Makes him want to be a part of the landscape with him.

“Hey, Carv!”

He’s been spotted. Bethany is standing on the end of the dock with her arms shielding her eyes from the sun, a little red-and-white slip of an island sprite in her crimson bikini. He waves back, knowing it’s pointless to duck away and pretend he wasn’t watching them.

“Come on!” she calls, beckoning with huge sweeps of her arm. “Come help us build this sand castle!”

Carver opens his mouth to respond in the affirmative and bends in half instead, guffawing into his hands. On the beach, in perfect tandem with Bethany’s invitation, Felix had drawn his leg back and ploughed it through the sand castle with such precise comedic timing he’s having a hard time believing it wasn’t planned. But the dawning horror on Felix’s face, followed immediately by puppy-eyed guilt, says otherwise.

“Maybe some other time,” he shouts back, gesturing to the demolished pile of wet sand. Bethany lets out a wail of distress and cannonballs into the shallows to get her revenge, and Carver turns his back on the ensuing carnage, snickering as he goes.

Under the awning they’ve erected just behind the cockpit, Leandra is snoring gently on her chair, one of Varric’s trashy crime novels sliding out of her grip. He rescues the book and sets it on the deck beside her, biting back a smile when she shifts and peers over her sunglasses at him. “I was reading that.”

“You were snoring at it, Mum. Can I get you anything? A cocktail? Some water?”

“A mimosa would be lovely, darling. And then scoot, go play with your friends. There’s no need for you to hang around here like a specter.”

“I’m not five years old, Mum,” he grumbles, but he goes to make the mimosa.

When he finally gets to shore, Bethy and Felix are playing nice again. They appear absorbed in the construction of another castle, though, so he lays on the end of the dock with his feet dangling into the warm water and lets himself drift. The sunlight plays across the back of his eyelids like liquid fire, and the ocean laps at his toes and at the pillions with a soothing rhythm, and when he feels a wet tickle on his heel he almost thinks he’s imagining things. But then it comes again, more distinct. His foot twitches.

“I’ll kick you in the face if you keep doing that,” he warns without opening his eyes. “I don’t mean in retaliation, I mean I literally won’t be able to stop the reflex.”

There’s a low chortle and Felix pops up out of the water like a cork, grinning. “I was hoping you’d think I was Bethy.”

“Nah, she knows better. I kicked her once when we were kids, dislocated her shoulder. It was an accident, obviously, but that’s not something you forget.”

“Well, thanks for the warning.” Felix folds his brown arms on the dock and props his chin on top, his lower half still wafting gently in the water like a fish’s tail. “Are you coming?”

“Not at the moment,” Carver answers automatically, then blushes. “Oh, you meant swimming.”

Felix laughs. “What did you think I meant?” The twinkle in his eyes says he knows exactly what Carver meant, but he’s giving him the out, so Carver takes it.

“Nothing. I’ll come in a little bit; I’m trying to work on my tan.”

A derisive snort. “Carver, you’re not going to tan, you’re about as white as a sheet of paper. You’re going to burn, badly, and then you’re going to regret it.”

“Shut it. I put on suncream.” He props himself all the way up and scoots over so that his legs dangle in the warm water. “But you’re right, I don’t tan.” He sighs despairingly. “I freckle.”

“You _do_?” Felix looks disproportionately delighted by this news.  “How adorable.”

“Yeah. The real question is, why do I freckle and Bethy just turns this really pretty golden brown that looks like she got it out of Vogue?”

“Aw, poor Carv-Carv. Do you wish you looked like you belonged in Vogue?”

“Bloody hell. I _cannot_ believe you heard about that.”

“No secret is safe from me,” Felix grins. “ _I_ just can’t believe you let her get away with calling you ‘Carv-Carv’ for so long.”

“I was two. I didn’t know any better.”

Without warning, there’s a burble of displaced water and Felix disappears beneath the water as if by magic. Carver lurches upright in time to see a vaguely Bethy-shaped blur dragging Felix under the water. He snickers and leans back on the palms of his hands.

There’s a rush of blue-white bubbles, and Felix pops up again, spluttering. “Jesus Christ—” The words end on a choked cough, and Carver goes from relaxed and amused to razor-sharp worry in a split second. He grabs Felix by the arm before he can go under again, none too gently, and pulls him bodily onto the dock as he convulses with coughing.

“You okay? Dammit, Bethy…” He looks to the end of the pier and the open water beyond where the _Leandra Sky_ sits calmly in the water like a great nesting bird. Felix is still coughing. “I’m grabbing your inhaler, stay here.”

“I’m fine,” Felix wheezes, somehow squeezed out between coughs. “No, Carv—wait, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.” He curls on his side and pinches his nose shut, struggling to breathe deeply and evenly. Completely at a loss, Carver strokes his back in wide circles, nearly dizzy with relief when the exercise seems to help him.

Bethany emerges from the water suddenly, wide-eyed. “Oh my god, Felix, I’m so sorry, I completely forgot! Are you all right?” She scrambles up onto the dock without help, hands fluttering uselessly. “I’m such an idiot. I’m so sorry.”

Felix waves her off and flops onto his back, still gasping as he catches his breath. “I’m fine. Nothing to be sorry for,” he rasps. He pushes himself up and takes her wrists gently, pulling her hands away from her face. She’s pink with more than sun, and her lashes are wet with tears. “Shh, don’t cry. That was minor, darling, I promise. I’ve had worse from Dorian.”

“I don’t know about that,” Carver grumps. He doesn’t mean to be short with her, but adrenaline and fear have combined to put him on edge, a prickly, irascible beast with little grasp of good manners. He reaches out, tentative, and puts a hand on Felix’s upper back, over the griffon rearing rampant between his shoulder blades. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Fine. Might take a bit of a break from swimming, though. Bethy, sweet, don’t cry. It’s all right.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. God, I’m so silly.” She wipes her eyes briskly and gets to her feet. “I’m going to go see if Mare and Dorian have found coconuts yet. Do either of you want one?”

“Sure,” Felix says amiably, and Carver nods along with him like a puppet responding to its master’s hand.

He feels dazed, watching Felix scoot to the end of the dock and dip his feet in the water like nothing happened, like he wasn’t on the verge of choking to death a moment ago. Well, perhaps that’s stating it a bit bluntly. Surely Felix would be less relaxed, if that were the case. Brushes with death are generally a little more alarming.

But he doesn’t look alarmed. He looks… content. He’s still a little pink in the face, and his chest and throat are rosy, too, almost reminiscent of a sex flush. Carver’s chest tightens and he looks away, suddenly terrified of the silence. He feels awkward and paralyzed with fear, trapped in that moment with his hand on Felix’s back, and it’s mixing up with the soft sound of his breath and the kiss of the waves, crossing his wires. He might even be a little turned on. But he can’t think about that right now, or he’ll drive himself insane, so instead he blurts out the first thing that pops into his head.

“The tropics suit you.”

Felix squints up at him, smiling against the dazzling sunlight. “Thanks. I’m not sure I suit them, though.”

“What does that mean?”

“I dunno, I just… I’m homesick, I guess. It’s gorgeous here, don’t get me wrong. And I’m enjoying myself thoroughly.  A part of me almost wishes I could stay through the winter, but I need to be on campus once a week to finish my thesis in the spring. And...” He shrugs. “I miss London. I miss my Dad and Mum, Dorian, you and Bethy, the awful traffic and the excellent coffee and the rain. It’s so _bright_ here, I still haven’t decided whether it’s entirely real or not.”

 _It feels real with you_ , Carver thinks, but he has the good sense not to say it out loud. But then, “London misses you, too,” he says, and what the fuck is that supposed to mean? He’s blushing and he knows it, but hopefully Felix will mistake it for sunburn.

“Aw, that’s sweet of you to say,” Felix says. Carver can’t bring himself to look at him, but by the tone of his voice he’s laughing at him. Ugh. He turns his head and catches sight of his salvation: Mare and Bethy and Dorian, walking along the beach with a plastic bag that looks like it came from a grocery.

“Oh look, Bethy found them. And it looks like they brought coconuts.” He’s already half-standing before he’s finished his sentence, but he can’t quite make his escape. Not yet. Felix is holding out his hand and looking up at him with such patient expectation, he doesn’t have the heart to pretend not to see it. He reaches down and clasps Felix’s wrist, and together they lever him up onto the balls of his feet.

“Thanks,” Felix says, smiling a little. Carver swallows hard and turns away, but he walks slowly enough for Felix to keep abreast of him as they find their way to the beach.

///

“Here, catch.”

“Jesus Christ, Dorian,” Felix blurts, but he gets his hands out in time and the coconut slaps into them instead of against his bare chest. It’s a hairy thing but nicely formed, with a bright green skin that’s hard as nails when he raps his knuckles against it. Carver grunts and snatches his own out of the air from Marian’s wild throw.

“Where did you get these? I didn’t think they grew around here.”

“There’s a shop on the other side of the island,” Marian says lightly, dissolving any trace of tropical mystery Felix had been harboring after their lovely afternoon on the beach. “They offered to cut them open for us at an exorbitant fee and I said my brother could probably rip them open with his bare hands.”

“Thanks for your faith,” Carver says dubiously, “but I think we’re going to need a machete for these.”

“So Fenris?” Bethany suggests, cradling her own coconut like a baby in the crook of her arm, and Carver nods in agreement.

“Fenris.”

Felix isn’t sure why Fenris has a machete with him on the _Sky_ , and he decides he isn’t going to ask. Regardless, Carver disappears briefly below decks to fetch him and returns with Fenris and Anders in tow—both of them heavy-eyed and a little bit flushed from “napping”—and they all gather in a circle to watch Fenris whack at the coconuts with his blade. It’s a graceless but successful endeavor. The fruits crack open easily under Fenris’ determined vigor, spraying them all with flecks of coconut milk, and Anders produces a variety of liquors to mix with whatever liquid remains in their shells, devolving the rest of the afternoon into a tipsy, sunshine-flecked haze.

Felix abstains for the most part, except for half a coconut shell of Sex on the Beach for Bethy’s sake,  and so does Carver, since he maintains that _someone_ who knows how to sail ought to be somewhat sober in case of emergency. Dorian does _not_ abstain, however, and it shows. Somewhere between the shrimp skewers and his third shot of tequila, Dorian lists over to Felix and slings his arm around his shoulders, bending to whisper irascibly into his ear: “Just do it, Fee.”

“Just do what?” Felix wonders, amused. He rubs his ear, which is ticklish in the wake of Dorian’s coconut-scented mustache, and braces himself for another round.

“Kiss him,” Dorian says, and bottom drops out of his stomach.

He turns away from the riotous game of… something… going on under the awning and leans hard against the rail, suddenly longing to escape. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You clearly do, or you wouldn’t deny it so immediately.” Dorian’s breath is sharp with alcohol, but his voice is steady. He’s not that drunk. Just drunk enough to push Felix’s buttons when he would normally have the good sense to stay quiet. “Come on, Fee, have you taken a good look at him? All broad and sturdy, and those eyes… I honestly don’t know how you’ve resisted this long.”

“Yes you do,” Felix says curtly, pulling his wrist away from Dorian’s grasping fingers. “C’mon, Dor, you know why can’t do this.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

Dorian is silent for a bit, but Felix know he’s staring him down. The burning at the nape of his neck is proof enough. Eventually Dorian sighs and shifts away a little.

“Say the word, Felix, and I will drop the subject entirely. But you can’t tell me you don’t think there’s something going on between you.”

Felix rubs his hair vigorously, impatiently, and turns away to pace the deck. Just a few steps, just enough to get some breathing room. The last thing he needs is for someone to take notice and come check on them. “I—maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know.” He turns back and folds his arms, feeling suddenly vulnerable with the warm evening breeze blowing through the open sides of his tank. He thinks he’s seen Carver looking at him in a new way, ever since he fell asleep on his shoulder on that bloody camping trip a few months ago, but that hardly constitutes as proof. As if he has the stones to accept it even if it _was_ proof. The very idea feels like staring off the edge of a cliff with no bottom in sight. He takes a breath. “Even if there is, I… I don’t…”

“Fee.” Dorian’s touch grounds him, two firm hands on his swinging shoulders, and he stands perfectly still with the lapping water filling his ears and Dorian’s eyes pinning him to the rail like one of his father’s exotic beetles. There’s no way he’s even half a drunk as he seemed a minute ago, damn him. “There’s nothing wrong with being afraid.”

Felix draws a ragged breath. “Dad would beg to differ.”

“Your father has no room to judge on that score. And neither do I. You know how long it took me to believe Cullen when he said _I love you_.”

Felix huffs. “That’s slightly different. But I take your point.” He lets himself go lax, and when Dorian pulls him into a rough embrace, he goes willingly. In the false anonymity of Dorian’s bony shoulder he feels brave enough to admit, “He’s so beautiful sometimes I can’t breathe.”

Dorian’s arms tighten around him. “I guarantee the sentiment is mutual. The way he looks at you when he doesn’t think anyone is looking…”

“Dor,” Felix whispers, a gentle interruption. His stomach is tying itself in knots, and even the warm solidity of Dorian’s body isn’t enough to untangle them.

“Sorry.” Dorian pulls away with a rueful smile. “I’ll be quiet now.”

“Thanks. I know that this—this is all you.” He waves his hand, carelessly indicating the entire ship and its occupants, orchestrated by Dorian and Bethy and probably Fenris to be some kind of meet cute. “And I appreciate the trouble you went to, truly, but it’s all a little overwhelming, still. I’m sorry.”

“Goodness, no, don’t be sorry. There’s no pressure for you to do anything at all—I’m having a marvelous time, with or without the matchmaking. That was just an excuse to take a holiday, if I’m perfectly honest.”

Felix snorts and looks away. Past Dorian’s shoulder, where the others are gathered near the prow, Carver is swinging Beth around like a dancer, laughing and dizzy in their shared delight. Her legs kick randomly, and one of her flip-flops flies off and careens into the sea. He can’t quite hear at this distance, but he can see the “sorry” on Carver’s lips even as he laughs, the giggles as he cringes away from Bethy’s little fists. Felix half-smiles to himself in sympathy—and then Dorian clears his throat gently, and his eyes snap back to focus on his friend’s face. “Come on,” he says to cover the jibe that Dorian is barely holding in check. “We should rejoin the party.”

“Yes, we should.” Dorian claps his shoulder and forges on ahead, and Felix thinks there’s a slight tilt to his walk that hadn’t been there a minute ago. Bastard. “Attention! Attention! Now that everyone is pleasantly lubricated—no puns, please, there are ladies present—I have an announcement to make. Don’t snort at me like that, Miss Marian, it’s frankly alarming.”

There’s a round of scattered laughter and Felix drifts closer, wondering what ‘announcement’ Dorian is about to make. He trusts him enough to believe it has nothing to do with _him_ , but surely no one can blame him if he lingers on the other side of the lounge furniture in case he needs to make a quick escape.

“Stop faffing about and just tell us,” Fenris quips without heat, and Dorian bows with an elegant flourish.

“All right, all right. Tomorrow, as you all are well aware, is a very special day, when our two young, fresh-faced, doe-eyed—ouch!”

“Fuck off,” Carver says good-naturedly over Bethany’s giggles. Dorian massages the arm Carver punched with exaggerated disdain and turns his nose up.

“Well I _was_ going to suggest a special celebration that I may have already planned with the help of your lovely mother, but if you’re going to be _ungrateful_ about it…”

“He’s grateful!” Bethany jumps in, seizing her brother’s arm in what looks like a vise-grip by the expression on Carver’s face. “He’s so very, very grateful, aren’t you baby brother?”

“So grateful,” he grits out, prying her fingers off one by one. “What’s this celebration, then?”

“It just so happens that a friend of a friend and so forth owns a delightful little open-air restaurant a few islands south of here, and I may or may not have booked the entire rooftop for a special party. Food, drinks, music, all on me for the trouble of accommodating us—I do know we rather crashed your party and I wanted to make it up to you. And twenty-eight is a very big number, after all. It deserves to be celebrated properly.”

Bethany looks mystified. “Why is it such a big number?”

“Because,” Dorian drawls, tapping the side of his nose, “it’s the last year before you’re a year away from thirty. The last year you can say _I’m in my twenties_ and not actually mean _I’m almost thirty_. So make the most of it, my dears, and take it from me, nothing much changes when you hit thirty—but why not celebrate when you can?”

Carver is shaking his head but he’s smiling, and that’s when his eyes meet Felix’s from across the crowded deck. Heart in his throat, Felix smiles back distractedly and decides he’s ready for another drink.

///

“How do I look?”

Bethany looks up from the mirror where she’s painstakingly smoothing on eyeliner and blinks a few times, smiling. “Oh, Carv. You’re so handsome. C’mere.” She holds her hands out and he comes, grudgingly, to let her pat his collar down straight.

“It’s not too fancy?”

“Not at all. I think you look hot.” She winks, which is an amusing look when only one of her eyes is lined with black. “Where did you get this shirt? I don’t remember you ever wearing it before.”

“I picked it up when we stopped on the mainland the other day. I thought I should have something that wasn’t just a tee-shirt.” He looks down at himself, still a little awkward in his own skin. The shirt fits all right, but he’s so used to wearing tees or going shirtless that it feels strange to be wearing a button-up, even if the sleeves are short and cuffed to just above his biceps. And it’s festive, at least, dark blue with a delicate bird pattern, “terns” according to the tag, and if it stretches a little across the breadth of his shoulders, well, he doesn’t mind the ego boost.

“Turn around,” Bethy says, spinning her finger in a circle, and he obeys, boat shoes scuffing against the floor of her cabin. “I like it. You look nice, but not _too_ nice.”

“Thanks.” He lets her tug him down to brush her fingers through his hair, settling its damp strands in a slightly different order. “You look nice, too. But you’ve got, uh…” He gestures to his own eye and she spins around on her stool to finish the job.

“I’m almost done. Is everyone else ready?”

He shrugs. “I think so. Fen’s doing something weird to his hair but everyone else is on deck.”

“Hmm.” She leans close to the mirror and finishes with the liner, then adds a few flicks of mascara. She’s done something with her hair to make it fluffy and textured, and she’s wearing a pretty sundress that makes her cheeks pinker and her eyes bluer—she looks more healthy every day, he thinks, and he wishes very sharply and abruptly that their dad could be here to see them now.

 _Look how far we’ve come_ , he thinks, and he kisses the top of her head when she stands. “Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

He ends up being coerced into giving her a piggyback ride up to the deck, and when they arrive there’s a small scattering of applause interspersed with laughter at Bethany’s small bobbed head peering over Carver’s shoulder. Carver deposits her gently on the deck and succumbs to a little bit of fawning by their mother before Dorian rounds everyone up and they disembark.

This island is the most populated area they’ve been to since the mainland—the docks are crowded with people fishing and drinking and making nuisances of themselves, or so it seems to Carver, who’s grown accustomed to the relative peace and seclusion of the _Leandra Sky_ , but Dorian leads them unerringly to a beachfront restaurant with lots of dark wood and sleek glass accents, sharp and elegant against the generous greenery spilling everywhere from pots and vines along the walls. They are led upstairs, away from the general bustling noise of the dinner hour, and Bethany drags Carver immediately to the balcony hanging out over the water. There’s a small bar set up there, and she orders them both something off the cocktail menu while the others filter in, admiring the décor and debating the menu options among themselves.

Looking over the room, Carver can’t help but feel that there are people missing. Not necessarily his father, although that’s the obvious choice, but others like Merrill and Rue and Cullen, Shani and Alistair, Cass and Josie and yes, okay, even Isabela. As pretty and relaxed as Marian looks tonight, there’s obviously an empty place at her side that shouldn’t be there.

But he can’t really complain. He has Bethy at his side, healthy and happy, his mother trading dirty stories with Dorian, Fenris and Anders smirking at each other over the sangria pitcher like they’ve been snarky, sharp-tongued lovers all their lives. And Felix. Felix with his laughing dark eyes as he listens to his mother telling some horrible story, likely one from Carver and Bethany’s childhood, dressed in the dark green trousers he’d had on the first day they met in Greece—Carver remembers them vividly only because their snug fit was actually a disappointment after seeing Felix in nothing but a wet pair of briefs.

“Hey,” Bethy says quietly at his elbow, “what are you thinking about?”

He bites back hysterical laughter. “Nothing. Just happy to be here.”

She cocks her head, eyes too bright and knowing. “Is everything okay with you? You and Felix, I mean? The two of you seem a bit at odds lately.”

“At odds?” he echoes, not entirely sure how to respond. He doesn’t feel _at odds_ with Felix—maybe with himself.

“You know. Awkward.” She chews her lower lip anxiously. “Was this a bad idea?”

“Was _what_ a bad idea?”

“Come on, Carv, you can’t tell me you actually thought this was all coincidence. Running into them at the precise marina where we were docked? Inviting them to stay on the boat with us?” She’s got an eyebrow cocked at him in disbelief, and Carver swallows back his irritation.

“I knew _something_ was going on, but I… wasn’t really thinking about it. Ignorance is bliss.” He shakes his head, mouth dry. Felix is coming their way, probably for a drink, and he’s suddenly very much not ready for this conversation. “I’m just afraid it’s all in your head. _My_ head.”

“Does it matter?” Bethany murmurs. “And I don’t think it is, anyway. You don’t see what I see.”

Carver watches Felix come closer, perusing a cocktail menu as he strolls toward them, trousers hugging his hips and his skin perfectly smooth and brown on his arms and the freckled bridge of his nose. He swallows. “What _do_ you see?” he wonders, but Bethany doesn’t have a chance to respond, because Felix is there, favoring them a white smile and a kiss to Bethy’s cheek before going to get himself a drink. Carver looks at his shoes and yelps when Beth pinches the inside of his arm.

“Don’t be so terrified,” she hisses, and gives him a little push to his back. “It’s only Fee.”

 _Only Fee._ Only Fee, who he remembers like it was yesterday walking into Blackwall and Stroud’s for the first time and putting him at ease without even trying. If only he could feel some of that calm again—right now he only feels like throwing himself over the edge of the balcony and going for a swim, preferably as far away from here as possible. Instead he takes a breath and leans against the bar, snagging the menu out of Felix’s hands.

“What are you getting?”

“I was considering a mojito,” Felix says, laughing. “Haven’t you already had something?”

“Didn’t much like it. Too sweet. Here, try it.” He passes it across the bar to him, a little foamy yellow thing with pineapple and rumchata and coconut. “I got it because Bethany wanted it but it’s not really my kind of thing.”

“What is your kind of thing?” Felix wonders, sipping delicately at the drink. It leaves a little bit of yellow foam on the edge of his lip and Carver wants to lick it away.

“Something darker. Something with a little bite.” He slides the menu across to the bartender and taps one of the items with his forefinger. “I can’t pronounce it, but I’d like to drink it.”

Felix snags the menu and examines the ingredients. “Bourbon and ginger beer and walnut bitters? Interesting. And very different from this.” He throws the rest of it back and spits a few ice cubes into the glass. “Mm. That was nice.”

“Another?” the bartender asks, and Felix nods. “Yes, please.”

When their drinks come, Carver offers Felix a taste, but he declines. “After this,” he raises his foamy pineapple concoction in illustration, “I think it would just taste like dirt. But let me know if it’s good and maybe I’ll brave a sip or two later.”

Carver clacks their glasses together. “Deal.”

From inside the restaurant loft comes a chime like a bell, or maybe a fork against a wineglass. Felix quirks a smile. “I think we’re being summoned.”

“Lead on,” he says, gesturing with his drink, and they return to the main room in time to be seated around a wide, round table that looks like it was cut from the center of a giant tree. The place settings are minimal, the hors d’oeuvres plentiful, and somehow it all puts Carver instantly at ease.

“Birthday boy and girl sit here!” Leandra declares, arranging her two children side by side well within easy reach of the sangria pitcher. Everyone else fans in around them, already reaching to pass plates back and forth. Under the table, Carver feels Bethy reach out and squeeze his knee encouragingly.

“Just have fun,” she whispers, watching as Fenris pours her a generous highball full of sangria. “Tonight is for us. Don’t worry about anything else if you don’t want to—everything will sort itself out.”

“You’re too optimistic,” he mutters.

“And you’re a pessimist, as always. That’s why you have me.”

“My better half,” he says, and toasts her. Their glasses clink and suddenly everyone is lifting their glasses in solidarity.

“To my little brother,” Bethany says aloud for everyone to hear, grinning at him. “The bravest, strongest person I know.”

“That’s my line,” he complains, but he accepts the compliment with a kiss on the cheek and a murmured round of _cheers_ spoken around the table. “To my _twin sister_ , my better half and my glass half full, no matter what happens.”

Bethany’s eyes glint with emotion but she keeps herself in check, accepting his gruff bear hug instead. When the _awww_ ’s and _cheers_ have died down, Leandra clears her throat. “I was going to say a little something, but maybe I’ll save it for when we’ve got some food and drink in us.”

“Particularly the drink,” Marian agrees, and ducks when her mother reaches out to tweak her ear, laughing.

“For now I’ll just say: I’m very proud of the two of you, and I know that if he were here, your father would be too. No matter how old you get you’ll always be my little angels. Now.” She sniffs and lifts her glass, her smile wobbly but determined. “To good friends, good food, and another year under our belts. With any luck we’ll remember tonight in the morning.”

“Cheers to that,” Dorian says heartily, and their glasses clink once more before they turn to the food with rumbling bellies.

It’s only towards the end of dinner that Carver realizes he’s drunk. The sangria is sweet but good, tasting like summertime, and the cocktails keep coming, and when the baklava is finally brought out he realizes he can’t remember when he last felt sober. He isn’t off his head, yet, and with enough water he’ll be all right in the morning, but he’s definitely in a pleasant daze. Everything around him moves fast and slow by turns, and he keeps zoning out of the conversation before snapping back in whenever Felix laughs, bright and giddy and unselfconscious.

Carver is laughing at something he can’t even remember when, distantly, he hears Felix exclaim, “I love this song! Bethy, dance with me!” Through the undulating shadows of the room, Carver watches Felix grab her by the hand and tug her out to a clear patch of floor. It’s not really a proper dance floor, but it will do. Felix twists on the balls of his feet, back and forth, and Bethy giggles and copies him, swinging lower toward the floor with every pass until she needs Felix’s grip just to get back up.

“I don’t think I’ve heard it!” she calls over the thrum of the beat, and Carver silently agrees. It sounds… modern. Techno? Is that the word? He doesn’t generally keep up with the latest music, preferring his weird ambient noise and occasionally classic rock when he’s in the mood. Reminds him of his childhood. Summer, lying in the bed of Dad’s truck while he blared Aerosmith and Skynyrd and laid on his back underneath, tinkering with the underbelly. He nurses his bourbon cocktail and watches Felix teaching Beth some kind of step, a little hop-skip and a slide of the hips that sends them careening across the floor and into one another in a storm of giggles.

But their movements aren’t entirely without grace—Bethany used to take all sorts of weird dance classes (but never ballet, never something easy to remember), and Felix obviously has a natural sense of rhythm that keeps him on his feet even with all the alcohol in his system.

More than just rhythm, Carver is beginning to realize, but _style._ Carver has frequented any number of clubs in his day, and he can keep a beat well enough not to embarrass himself, but Felix looks like he has liquid fire running through his veins. He’s sweating through his shirt in the heat, head tipped back and his throat exposed, bare and pale against his dark collar, one hand rubbing idly from belly to hip as his pelvis twists like something out of a porno. Carver’s mouth is suddenly very dry.

“How are you doing that?” Bethany calls over the thrum of the music, and Felix’s eyelids flutter open.

“Here, I’ll show you.”

Carver can’t hear the impromptu lesson they exchange, but he doesn’t need to. The language of Felix’s body communicates more than he could ever say in words. He moves like he’s made of smoke, like his bones are more sound than structure—and he’s laughing, teeth white against his rosy mouth, eyes dark, centered on himself and the joy of movement while his hands flutter like hummingbirds, teasing, against the hem of his shirt, his throat, briefly against the fly of his trousers. Carver feels paralyzed—he can’t look away. Like a magnet, Felix draws him in, pure sex in every movement, and he’s becoming uncomfortably aware with each passing second that he’s getting hard.

The beat drops abruptly, and it shatters the suspense that’s been building in him. Felix has pulled out all the stops, and even Bethany has fallen a little to the wayside to admire him—he looks around wildly, and everyone is laughing and cheering him on, even his own _mother_ , like they don’t realize that Carver is sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean of Felix’s eyes and he doesn’t know how he’s going to climb out again. More terrifying, the thought that perhaps he doesn’t _want_ to. He swallows hard and shifts in his seat; electricity runs down his spine with the movement, blood throbbing in his dick. He needs to get out of here.

No one seems to notice him slip away, even though he feels clumsy and boorishly obvious. He stumbles down the stairs in the dark and finds the bottom safely only through sheer dumb luck. His skin feels too hot, his collar too tight—dammit, _why_ did he wear a collared shirt? Was he crazy? He tugs at the buttons desperately, but his fingers are fat and clumsy and he ends up just leaning against one of the support pillars and ignoring the late-night restaurant staff giving him odd looks from their cleanup duties.

“Hawke?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin, but it’s only Fenris. “Jesus,” he says anyway, and he leans his forehead against the pillar. The world feels a bit like it’s spinning, and he’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the mad dash down the stairs.

“No, just me,” Fen says, but the joke falls flat. He touches Carver’s back carefully. “Are you all right? You’re not going to be sick?”

“No, not at all. I just… needed some air.”

Upstairs, the song is coming to an end, finally—the hypnotic, clanging beat fades away and is replaced with something tinnier and more rapid, like racing footsteps instead of a heartbeat, or the sensuous throb of a pair of hips moving against his own in the shadows. He shivers. Behind him Fenris moves, bare feet against the wooden dock—when did his shoes come off? “I saw what happened. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t made to feel uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” Carver croaks, and he can’t help but laugh, a rasp of desperation in the back of his throat. “I don’t know if that’s the right word.” He runs an anxious hand through his hair. “Insanely turned on, more like. Jesus, Fen, did you see him?”

“I saw,” Fenris says drily. “He has quite a gift.”

“A gift. Yeah. God. Was it—obvious? That I… liked it?”

“To me, yes, but I was looking for it. Everyone else was mostly watching Felix.”

Carver covers his face with one hand. “God. In front of my _mother_. How could he? Fen, how could he do this?” He hates himself a little for the way his voice cracks in two. “I’ve tried to hide it, I’ve tried to be a friend to him, but why would he do this unless he’s seen right through me and is taunting me for it?”

“What do you mean, seen right through you?” Fenris asks gently.

Carver laughs, but it’s humorless. “Are you serious? Fen, you know how I feel about him. You’ve known since the beginning.”

“If it was simply attraction you would have offered a quick fuck by now, to get it out of your system,” Fenris says bluntly. “But it’s not just that, is it?”

“I’m not twenty-two anymore, Jesus, Fen,” Carver says with a strangled laugh. “Zev was a special case, and you know it.”

“And the other men you’ve been with?”

“Well I can’t help it if I’m lonely, can I? It’s been ages since the last one, anyway. It was too much work for too little reward.” He lowers himself to the edge of the dock and puts his head in his hands. “I gave that up a long time ago, I don’t understand why you’re bringing it up now.”

With a grunt and a sigh, Fenris crouches down next to him, one hand braced on the wooden boards to keep his balance. “I’m bringing it up,” he says, “because I saw a flicker of the old Carver in you, just now, and I wanted to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

“Obviously I don’t, or I wouldn’t have bolted, would I?”

“I dunno, popping a stiffy in front of one’s mother is bound to make any man flee,” Fenris quips. When Carver scoffs at him, he squeezes his shoulder and drops down to sit beside him, feet dangling over the edge. His toes are very long, Carver notes absently, but his legs are short enough that they don’t quite meet the surface of the water even when the wavelets are on an upswing. “Tell me this, then, Hawke. If you don’t want a quick fuck, what _do_ you want? Because it seems to me that _just friends_ is no longer cutting it.”

Carver stares at his hands. In his semi-drunken state, the words come easily—too easily. Or maybe that’s just Fen. His little voice of reason. “I want to fall in love with him. And not have it be one-sided,” he adds quickly.

“What makes you think it’s one-sided?”

Carver huffs. “What’s so tempting about me? A working-class man without any money or connections, who still has nightmares sometimes about his dad dying twenty years ago? I’m hardly what you’d call a _catch_.”

Fenris is silent for a little while. “I didn’t realize you were still having nightmares.”

“I mean, not often. But the boat, you know. It’s kind of brought it back, a little. It’s fine.” His fingers tangle together and squeeze, white-knuckled. “They’re not as bad as they used to be.” Another long silence. “The point is, I don’t really have much to offer. You remember when we first met, with the Gala and the Trevelyan bloke—his father wants him to marry well.”

“This isn’t a Jane Austen book, Hawke. You’re allowed to marry below your station, such as it is. Or above, I suppose.”

Carver shrugs. “I just feel like… he’s bloody breathtaking, you know? And smart, incredibly smart. And sweet. He could have anyone. So why would he want to have me?”

“Isn’t it possible,” Fenris says slowly, thoughtfully, “that people fall in love with other people not because of their wealth, or their intelligence, but because they’re compatible in other ways? Shared history, or a similar personality, or the same sense of humor.”

“If you’re about to wax rhapsodic about you and Anders, no offense, but I don’t want to hear it.”

“None taken. And that’s not what I meant.” Fenris leans into his shoulder, enough to get his hand into his right back pocket and pull out his phone. “Here. I’ve been wanting to show this to you, but I’ve been waiting for the right moment. _Don’t_ scoff at me, Hawke. Let me see.” He scrolls briefly, then passes it over.

Carver’s breath stops in his chest. It’s a picture from Pride, he can tell by the blazingly bright background and the shirt he’s wearing, the button-up with the elegant floral pattern. He’s still got the stripe of red paint across his nose from Zev’s overeager _sexy knight_ costume, and his hair is a bit of a mess, falling over his forehead in a crimped, sweaty wave. And next to him is Felix, in his tank top striped with the colors of the bi flag, all but under Carver’s arm—they were waiting in line for food, he thinks, straining back to remember the precise moment Fenris must have snapped the picture. He had told a joke, or said something stupid, and Felix is looking up at him like he’s the whole world.

He blinks and looks away, then looks again. It’s not his imagination. He can see, though the screen is small and the backlight dimmed to conserve battery, that his own eyes are sliding away from Felix’s face in the moment the shutter clicked, too embarrassed to make prolonged eye contact. Felix had been looking at him _like that_ , with his heart in his eyes, and Carver had been too scared to look back.

Carver swallows and turns the screen off. “You got this with your phone?”

“My Canon,” Fenris admits, accepting the phone back into his hands. “I transferred it here. I thought it was best to be prepared.”

“And were you in on this too, then? With Bethy and Dorian? Planning to get us here in time for Felix’s fall break?”

“I might have been aware of it, yes,” Fenris admits. “And if you’re trying to make me feel bad about it, may I direct your attention to the time you stalked Anders and I on our first date and ended up decking my ex-boyfriend in front of an entire restaurant? _Including_ Felix and Dorian? That he’s rooting for the two of you at all is a testament to what he thinks is best for Felix. And somehow, he thinks it’s _you_.”

Carver snorts. “What do _you_ think is best for Felix?”

“Frankly, I couldn’t give less of a damn,” Fenris says bluntly. “He’s a good person, don’t mistake me, but he isn’t my best friend.”

Touched, Carver reaches for his hand and holds it, tightly. “Really? I’m your best friend?”

“Of course you are, Hawke. Who else?”

“I dunno, your boyfriend?”

Fen snorts. “I don’t rank romantic and platonic relationships on precisely the same scale. If you want to be semantic about it, you’re my best platonic friend. And I care about you, deeply. So when I say that I think you and Felix would make an excellent couple, it’s more of a testament to my desire for _you_ to be happy than whether or not you’ll be good for Felix.”

Carver groans. “My head hurts.”

Fenris chuckles, a soft, familiar chuff that Carver feels down to his bones. “Yes, all right. That’s enough for tonight, Hawke. But at least promise me you’ll think on it?”

Carver almost wants to ask for another look at that picture, but he refrains. He’s too proud. And besides, it’s all but burned on the insides of his retinas now. “I want to tell him. How I feel, I mean. And I will. But… not yet. I don’t want to go back to London and to find out it was all a dream, you know?”

A smile flickers in the corner of Fen’s mouth. “I know.” With his ever-present grace, Fenris boosts himself up to standing and reaches down to wrap a hand around Carver’s wrist. “Come on, Hawke. This is your party, remember?”

“No more dancing, please,” Carver begs, letting himself be pulled to his feet. The world sways a bit, and holds. Maybe it’s time for some water. “Fen. Don’t let me forget.”

“Forget what?” Fenris asks, dark brows arched high into the platinum-white of his fringe.

“Forget to tell him. Felix. When we get back to London.”

Fenris pats his arm. “I’ll make sure you remember. Now come. Before we’re missed.”

///

Felix doesn't know what possessed him—no, scratch that, he knows exactly what possessed him. Carver Hawke possessed him. Carver, sun-saturated, his skin creamy and flecked with freckles like dust motes floating in a still, fragrant temple illuminated golden by the sun. And the music, moving through him like liquid, an old familiar friend that seemed to light his nerves on fire—he is but a leaf before a gale, and he knows it. 

Unsurprisingly, his dreams that night are full of Carver. Not his friend Carver, with the solemn eyes and slow, easy laughter, but a different Carver that his mind invents far too easily: Carver with a hot, wet mouth, hungry and grasping, his body a sinuous thing moving pale and sweating in the dark.  Carver with teeth, and a sweet voice made rough with want.

He wakes up suddenly around dawn, and he can almost feel Carver’s hands on his hips, stroking, steadying, calloused and rough but infinitely gentle. He rolls over onto his back and aches. _Wants_. Mindful of Dorian sleeping lightly in the other bunk, he takes care of things as quietly as he can; still, when he finishes, heartbeat thundering in his ears, he thinks the sound of Dorian’s breathing has changed. Red and prickly all over, he tiptoes out of bed and gathers his things for a swim.

On deck, morning is already well underway. The sun is not yet up, but its ambient light bathes everything in a rosy glow that Felix can feel echoed in his body. Fenris is on duty, but he doesn’t look very invested. He’s sitting on the bulkhead, swinging his legs and drinking last night’s sangria out of a repurposed glass Coke bottle. He nods a greeting to Felix and continues to watch the sunrise, so Felix lets him, trying not to be too jealous of his tousled hair and the marks speckling his throat and shoulders. At least _someone_ around here is getting some.

He drops his towel and tee on the deck and goes to balance on the edge. The water is a color impossible to describe, somewhere between navy velvet and charcoal-green, lit farther off with a golden peach color that bleeds into cornflower blue and ripples unbroken to the hazy edge of the world.

There’s a rush of bubbles beneath his feet, a quick white blur, and then Carver pops up with a gasp that splits the silence like a gunshot. Felix is suddenly very aware of their positions—Carver treading water down below him, probably with an excellent view of Felix’s hip region, which still feels tingling and oversensitive from his earlier activities. He blushes instinctively, watching a bead of water slide down Carver’s temple and into his beard. He can imagine, very vividly, taking hold of that beard, digging his fingers in and drawing him close to kiss his smiling, salty mouth. It’s simultaneously the thing he’s most afraid of and the thing he wants most in the entire world.

Carver, thank goodness, doesn’t appear to notice his preoccupation. “Morning, sleepyhead,” he greets him, grinning wide enough that Felix can make out the shallow dimples in his cheeks. “C’mere, and grab some snorkeling gear, there’s something I want to show you.”

Struck dumb, Felix only nods and moves to obey. When he returns, Carver is treading water beside the boat, legs moving in a low ripple beneath the surface. He’s freckled and glistening with seawater in the early morning light like some kind of ocean god, an offspring of Poseidon or one of his favored messengers, fleet of foot and moving through the water like a riptide. If he would but open his mouth to sing, Felix knows he would be lost.

“Come on,” Carver says, perfectly human. “I promise you’ll love it.”

Felix tosses the gear down first, which Carver grabs to keep from floating off, and then flings himself into the water with a silent exclamation of joy. He plunges into the water feet first and surges back up to the top in a few clean strokes, feeling more like himself.

When they’ve got their gear affixed, Carver leads the way, rippling ahead with slow kicks of his flippered feet and a trail of bubbles dancing silver in his wake. Felix is happy just to follow, caught up in the colors and the quiet of the morning, but soon he sees shapes flicking in the water ahead of them and Carver stops, popping out of the water and spitting out the mouthpiece to say, “Look. Dolphins.”

Felix gasps and pushes his goggles up, squinting along the glittering expanse of water. The nearest island is behind them, leaving the ocean open like a scroll spreading in every direction, and not too far away—though too far to swim there, he thinks, distance on the water is a tricky beast—a pod of dolphins frolics in the water, lifting out in perfect grey arcs and disappearing again in an endless wave. He laughs out of the sheer delight of seeing it and turns to Carver to find him smiling at him, eyes soft and welcoming.

“Do you think we can get closer?” he says, a little bit breathless.

Carver pulls his goggles back into place. “Let’s find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Felix dances to is [Talking Body](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlYbDjwBe2Y) by Tove Lo. Also I keep forgetting this, but I'm kind of compiling a playlist for this fic, AKA throwing songs into spotify whenever they give me a twinge of "ooh! fever!" So if anyone is interested, that playlist is [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/1260665611/playlist/12qaStpZwm4tTj0l0Lsvja). Some songs in particular I've been feeling lately are [Endless Summer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWMmvO7LgWE) and [Rosebud](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJb7EQLhxUg), both by the Jezabels.
> 
> EDIT: Added the photo Fen takes of Carver and Felix into the text!


	17. 17.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holiday season comes to a head, and so do the feelings everyone's been bottling up for the last year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote some of this chapter a very long time ago, and I've been waiting almost since the beginning to be able to post it. And here we are! Thanks so much to everyone who's come along for the ride so far, I hope you stick it out with me the rest of the way! 
> 
> This chapter contains [art](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/140875868695/the-art-that-goes-with-this-weeks-chapter-of), which I commissioned from cl2y a while back! <3

Carver means to tell him. He really does. It isn’t as if he’s lacking for opportunity, either. Felix comes back to London in the middle of November, just as the holiday season is picking up at work, but in spite of his busy schedule he still sees a great deal of him—at the Knight Club, at the ’shop when Felix stops ’round to say hello, at the occasional house party or night out with his steadily-increasing group of friends. But somehow, the words just won’t come.

“I’m waiting for the right time,” he tells Fenris when he asks for an update on ‘the situation.’ “I can’t just come out of the blue and tell him I fancy him.”

“Why not?” Fenris wants to know, as if it were that simple. Carver still doesn’t have an answer.

On November the second, four embossed envelopes come in the mail to the Hawke residence, addressed respectively to Ms. Marian Hawke, Miss Bethany Hawke, Mr. Carver Malcolm Hawke, and Mrs. Leandra Amell Hawke. Bethany tears hers open first and gives a shout of celebration. “We’re invited to the Gala this year! All of us.”

“You were going to be my plus-one even if you weren’t invited,” Carver assures her, but she just sticks her tongue out at him. “Charming.”

“How did you know you were getting an invitation?” their mother asks to keep the peace.

“Alistair told me. He said it was embarrassing that we hadn’t been invited sooner, considering our relations.”

“Is Fen doing photos again?” Bethy asks, tracing the gilt-embossed edge of the card. “They turned out so beautifully last time.”

“Yeah. Anders asked him to be his plus-one but he declined. Said he’d prefer to be on the sidelines.”

“Aw, poor Anders. Perhaps I’ll see if he still needs a date.”

“What about me?” Carver asks, feeling slighted.

Bethany sniffs. “What _about_ you?”

“We don’t all need dinner dates,” Leandra interrupts before Carver can devolve into irritable muttering. “Now put your invitations somewhere safe and don’t forget to RSVP. Goodness. You’d think you were eight years old, not twenty-eight.”

Argument disbanded, he forgets all about the invites until a few days later, when he receives a text from Felix. _I’m in dire need of a plus-one to the Gala. Please tell me you’re still free._

Carver had been planning on going alone and sitting with his mother like a good son, but he knows better than to tell Felix that. Instead, he calls Beth. “Felix wants me to be his date to the Christmas Gala. What do I do?”

“You say yes, you twat.”

“But what about you and Mum?”

“I’ll be her date, of course. We’ll sit in the corner and eat too many cakes and it’ll be grand with no hangdog men moping around to ruin our evening. Now go, stupid, and tell him yes!” Whereupon she hangs up on him, leaving him staring blankly at his phone with a rock the size of Siberia sitting in his stomach.

 _Do we have to wear matching tuxes?_ he asks, a little afraid of the answer. He doesn’t want to have to admit to _renting_ , as if it’s something to be ashamed of. But the answer puts him at ease.

 _Coordinate, not match_ _J Bodahn & Son’s do very nice rental work. Shall we set a date for a fitting?_

 _Is this a dinner or a wedding?_ Carver types back, holding his breath. For a joke, it cuts a little too close to home.

 _To my father they appear to be one and the same,_ is Felix’s longsuffering reply. _But no, just dinner. And maybe a little dancing?_

_Why are you asking me? If I’m your plus-one I’m kind of signing on for that, aren’t I?_

_I didn’t want to presume_ , Felix answers humbly. _I know you aren’t the dancing type._

 _With the right person_ , Carver says, and then he hears the words over in his head and he blanches. Was that a come-on? _Get a grip, Hawke_ , he tells himself sternly. _You have to start somewhere._

 _I’ll hold you to that_ _J_ , Felix says. Carver swallows back the butterflies in his stomach and opens his calendar app to find a free date.

///

“Ouch!”

“My apologies, monsieur. If you could stand still for just a moment longer.”

Carver glares down at the broad, diminutive man currently sticking him with needles. “Master” Bodahn’s delicate touch leaves something to be desired, he thinks sourly. He hopes the end result is worth it.

A stifled giggle directs his attention to the mirror, where he meets Felix’s eyes. He is similarly attired in a deconstructed tuxedo jacket and a button-down shirt, waiting patiently while Bodahn’s soft-spoken son nips and tucks with a cushionful of pins to achieve a precise fit. Unlike Carver, Felix looks entirely at home in this setting—the rich velvet drapes on the individual dressing rooms, the plush carpets, the antique cabinets stocked with fresh spring water all seem to be as unremarkable to him as a dull backdrop, while Carver struggle not to gawk.

“There,” Bodahn says at last. “Turn, please. Lift your arms. Perfect. How does it sit, sir?”

“Uh.” Carver looks at Felix, who is watching with barely-suppressed amusement in his pursed mouth. “It feels like a suit?”

Bodahn looks like he’s about to choke, but Felix comes to the rescue. “It looks excellent, Bodahn. I have no doubt the finished product will be twice as magnificent.”

“Er. Yeah, that.” He probably _does_ look smart, but his arse is still pinching from getting stuck and he’s not in the mood to pander to this overstuffed, talkative salesman. Thankfully, Bodahn’s offense is averted and Carver is allowed to change back into his normal clothes. Felix follows suit shortly after, conscientiously buttoning his shirt all the way up to the neck before putting on his scarf.

“Shall we?” he says, smiling brightly.

“Shall we what?”

“I thought I could buy you coffee, as a thank you for putting up with all of this. I mean, unless you’d rather not.” He’s starting to look a bit anxious, and Carver hurries to intervene.

“Oh, no, coffee sounds perfect. Fine. Lead the way.”

It’s warm for late November when they step out into the street, on the cusp of drizzling but not quite wet enough for Carver to wish for a hood. They walk the handful of blocks to Harold’s, and Bethy is behind the counter when they arrive, doodling surreal flower imagery onto her forearm with a fine-tipped sharpie.

“You’ll give yourself ink poisoning if you keep doing that,” Carver tells her, startling her into a smile when she realizes who it is.

“Carv! Fee! How was the fitting?”

“Awful,” Carver drones at the same time that Felix says, “Productive.”

Bethy looks between the two of them and smirks. “I told you he’d be hard to handle.”

“I don’t think he was hard to handle at all,” Felix says blithely, ignorant of the blush burning red in Carver’s ears. “He knows what he likes. I can appreciate that in a man.”

“And what _does_ he like?” Beth wonders aloud, making wide eyes at Carver.

“Well,” Felix amends, “it was more knowing what he _doesn’t_ like.”

“A much longer list,” Beth says sagely.

“True. Tuxedos, fittings…”

“Common sense, good taste…”

“Pins in my arse and nosy sisters,” Carver interrupts, irritable. “Can I order my drink now or are you guys going to stand here and insult me all afternoon?”

“Don’t be silly, I already know what you’re getting. And I’m not charging either of you, so don’t even try to pay. Family policy,” she explains, pointing at Carver and then, pointing at Felix, “and putting-up-with-my-family policy.”

“You’re hilarious,” Carver gripes while Felix laughs uproariously into his scarf.

When they’ve got their drinks and are sat at what has somehow become _their_ spot, right by the windowfront, Carver’s phone buzzes with a text. When he checks, it’s Bethy. _remember to ask him to Hanukkah!_ _J_ He looks up at the counter and she’s beaming at him, making little shooing motions with her hands. He flips her off under the table.

“So,” Felix says, making him jump, but he doesn’t appear to have noticed Carver’s preoccupation. “I suppose Dorian has invited you to their New Year’s ’do by now?”

“And eagerly accepted—on Bethy’s part,” Carver agrees, provoking an abrupt, aborted laugh.

“Not eagerly on _your_ part?”

“I’m eager,” Carver protests, fumblingly. Felix is laughing at him with his eyes and it’s making it difficult for him to think straight. “I just… ugh. You’re teasing me.”

“You make it so easy,” Felix says, unrepentant. “But I know what you mean. ‘Eager’ isn’t usually a word I associate with you.”

“Before I forget,” Carver says, purposefully shifting the focus of the conversation, “what are you doing December fourteenth?”

Felix narrows his eyes in thought. “It’s the week before the Gala, isn’t it? Or a few days before? I’m not really sure. Nothing, I suppose. Why?”

“You don’t have to say yes,” Carver hedges, “but it’s the last night of Hanukkah and we always have a bit of a gathering. Merrill and Fen and Anders will be there, and a few others—not a huge group. We do food and presents and we light the menorah, nothing too fancy. You wouldn’t be expected to bring presents,” he adds hastily, but Felix’s glowing smile drowns out his stammering.

“I’d love to come. It’s in the evening, yeah?”

“Yes. We light the candles at sundown, so sometime before that. Fourish, usually.”

“Should I bring anything? I can cook something, or—oh, I forget do you eat kosher?”

“Me, personally? No. My mum and Bethy do. On Hanukkah we have a mix, so you can bring whatever you’d like. You’ll probably want to talk to my mum about that though—or Bethy. They’ll know better what you should bring.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you for the invitation. And, ah, thanks again for going along with all of this. The fittings, and the Gala. I know it’s not really your cup of tea.”

“I don’t mind,” Carver says, and it’s only half a lie. “I know I seem perpetually annoyed with everything, but it’s for a good cause. Two good causes: AIDS awareness and keeping Felix’s father off his back.”

Felix snorts. “Hardly on the same scale, but I do appreciate it all the same.”

“Was darling Maxwell clamoring for another go?”

“Not to my knowledge, but Dad was starting to make noises about bringing a date and I _really_ didn’t want him picking for me this year. He means well, but.” He shrugs and lifts his coffee to his nose, letting the steam curl around his face. His beard has grown back in since Greece, but he keeps it nicely trimmed close to his jaw, unlike Carver’s longer, slightly unrulier bush. He wants to reach across the table and pet it, cup Felix’s cheek in his hand and feel the softness of his skin. Instead he grips hips coffee harder and hums in commiseration. “But that’s enough about me,” Felix says brightly, clearly interpreting Carver’s noise as boredom. “Tell me about work. How are commissions going?”

This is an easier pattern to fall into, and Carver is ashamed to admit he seizes the opportunity with both  hands. He rattles on easily about the latest news from the ’shop and Felix listens intently, eyes bright and interested behind his glasses. When Bethany finally sidles up to their table, apron and nametag nowhere to be seen, he’s amazed to discover that the afternoon has flown by into evening and Felix is _still there_ , completely happy to hear him chatter about everything and nothing.

“I’ll see you next week to pick up our suits?” Felix says as they gather their things in preparation to part ways.

“Better text me and remind me of the time,” Carver says sheepishly.

“And don’t forget about Hanukkah!” Bethany adds, smiling like the sun. “You’re coming aren’t you?”

“I am,” Felix agrees, and he looks at Carver in a way that makes the pit of his stomach swoop. “Text me and let me know if I can bring anything? I love to cook, so I’d be happy to make a contribution.”

“Oh, really? That’s good to hear. Carver is useless in the kitchen.”

“That’s not true,” Carver huffs. “I’m excellent at eating.”

“A very necessary trait to have in the kitchen,” Felix says sagely.

Carver can almost hear Bethany vibrating with matchmaking tendencies, so he makes their goodbyes and guides her out into the street with an arm through her elbow. When Felix has disappeared around the corner, she tugs him down and whispers, “If you don’t marry that man someday I’m disowning you.”

“Not a very good threat, considering,” Carver says, but he’s blushing. “Please tell me you don’t have any crazy schemes planned for the holidays?”

“A lady doesn’t tell,” Bethany says primly. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

///

Felix takes the tube to Leandra’s house because Carver warned him it was the easiest way, but on a late afternoon in the middle of December it’s almost more hassle than its worth. The crowds suffocate him, pressing in on every side, and by the time he gets off the Victoria line with his packages held close to his chest, he’s relieved to feel the slap of cold, wet air against his face. He wedges himself through the turnstiles and out through the cramped station into the street, and exhales all the pungent underground air with relish.

The hill is a bit of a hike, but he finds the right number apartment and wedges himself through the gate, which someone has thoughtfully left unlatched. He almost slips twice coming up the walk, however, and when he finally arrives he feels wet and bedraggled and cranky; his scarf unraveled somewhere between the station and the top of the hill, and one end now hangs all the way down to the ground wet and muddy from being unavoidably trampled on. From inside he can hear music and laughter—a small child shrieks and is consoled. He feels, very suddenly, like the outsider he is. The knocker is there in front of him, but between his burdens and the weather, he debates reaching for it at all.

There’s a patter of little feet behind the door, breaking into his melancholy thoughts, and it creaks open slowly to reveal and empty hall. He looks down. Peeking out at him from behind the door is a small red-headed child, perhaps three or four years old, with a plethora of freckles and a large, misshapen jumper with a six-pointed star sewn onto it with gold glitter rickrack. Felix puts on his most friendly smile, the one he reserves for irascible department heads and students coming to complain about their grades.

“Hello there. I’m Felix.”

“Fee! There you are.” Carver materializes seemingly out of nowhere, scooping up the silent child and propping him on his hip as easily as breathing. “Let me help you with that.”

Somehow, in spite of the fact that he’s holding a toddler, he manages to relieve Felix of half his burden, shoo him inside, and unwind his bedraggled scarf without much difficulty. Felix ducks out of his coat and finds it plucked from his grip and hung on a peg in the foyer.

“Thank you,” he whispers, mindful of the low, reverent prayer being sung just a room away. “I didn’t mean to be so late. The tube was… hectic.” He rubs his hands on his trousers, wishing for hand sanitizer or maybe a shower, and Carver tips his head to a door just down the hall.

“The loo’s just down there, if you want to freshen up. We’ll wait. This is Wesley, by the way,” he adds, jostling the little boy gentle against his hip. “My nephew-by-association. Say hello, Wes.”

“Good to meet you,” Felix says solemnly when no greeting is forthcoming, and he gets a bashful smile hidden in Carver’s chest for his trouble. He grins and ducks down the hall to wash his hands; Carver waits for him, and when he’s done, feeling cleaner and more like himself, he follows him on silent footsteps to the living room where a small gathering of people is watching Leandra strike a match to a long wax taper.

He recognizes Anders and Fenris right away, pale heads bent together as they sit on the couch side by side; Bethany and Merrill are there, too, and Marian, along with a middle-aged couple he reckons are the parents of Carver’s “nephew.” He fastens his eyes on the candles, the only source of light in the room. One by one they flare to life, reflected like stars against the window glass. He did a little reading before he came, about the history of the holiday and the menorah, but that’s not what kindles the warmth of connection in him at the sight. Instead, he thinks, it’s Carver at his side, and his friends scattered through the room—friends he’s only just starting to realize he _has_.

He remembers having a lot of friends in uni, or people he would willingly spend time with, at least. But the only person who stuck with him through his diagnosis and the fallout was Dorian, and after that… well, he had his studies, and that was enough. Cullen is his friend, certainly, and Cass and Josie, but all of them he knew mainly through association. Standing here now, he’s realizing that these are people he’s befriended without a mediator, without Dorian texting him constantly until he agreed to come out for a drink, or his father manhandling him into a fête or a charity dinner just to get him out of the house. He has a family here, somehow. Thanks to Carver. He swallows the lump that appears in his throat and thinks he’s never been so grateful to walk into a woodshop before in his life.

The last candle is lit and the song peters out, and suddenly everyone is moving and talking at once. Wesley scurries free of Carver’s arms and darts between legs to find his mother, whereupon a very strident argument for something called _gelt_ begins in earnest. Felix shrinks back instinctively from the wall of sound, but Bethany pops out of the chaos and immediately spies the bags dangling from one hand. “You silly goose, you didn’t have to bring presents!” she says, kissing his cheek. “But thank you, it was very sweet of you.”

“It’s nothing much, just some general things for your family—a hostess gift, if you like. I’m sorry I didn’t bring food, but there’s a bottle of wine in here somewhere, just don’t ask me to find it.” He rubs his nose, intensely aware of Carver’s quiet presence hovering at his shoulder. “I’m a bit, er, frazzled at the moment.”

“That’s all right, we won’t parade you about,” Bethany begins, but is interrupted by her mother’s voice pitched to carry over the hubbub.

“Everyone, this is Felix! A friend of Carver’s and Bethany’s.” There seems to be a tiny pause between their names, but perhaps Felix is just imagining it.

Before he can say anything in reply to the expectant faces circled around, Bethany squeezes his arm apologetically and pipes up, “Don’t be silly, Mum, everyone knows Felix—except Aveline and Donnic. Fee, that’s Aveline and Donnic. And now you know everybody.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Felix says under the hum of laughter that fills the room like a warm bath. Still, he breathes a sigh of relief when Leandra accepts the introduction and chivvies them all to the dining room.  

“And where is the lovely Isabela this evening?” he hears Fenris murmur behind him as he shuffles along near the end of the line.

“She couldn’t make it,” is Carver’s taciturn reply. Fenris doesn’t ask anything more, and Felix pretends to not have heard.

Dinner is… lovely, actually. It isn’t what he’s used to, and the novelty is oddly appealing. Dinner for him is always a quick meal on his couch while grading papers, or elegant soirées for charity events, or stilted meals out with his father wherein they both talk very loudly around subjects like his career and his mother. This is exactly the opposite. Everyone is talking over everyone else, passing food back and forth without rhyme or reason, and the room only falls into a quiet lull when all the plates are full. As the plates grow emptier, talk grows more plentiful, a low, contented hum that rises and falls, pockets of chatter ebbing and flowing with ease. There are no awkward pauses, only comfortable spaces in which to take a breath, a bite, a sip of wine, and begin it all again.

Carver sits across the table from him, which removes the opportunity for private conversation but provides ample chance to just watch him. Not in a creepy way, he hopes—he’s had enough practice by now to be discreet. Discreet _enough_. There’s more than one pair of eagle eyes around the table, as Felix is well aware.

He can’t help being captivated by him. He’s so large, broad-shouldered and tall enough to be distracting where he sits between Bethany and Merrill, who appear positively diminutive against his bulk. But he moves with grace, as if he’s aware of every inch of space he occupies and wants to be efficient in his use of it. Felix wonders if it took years of practice to achieve this, or if it comes naturally.

“Earth to Felix.” Bethany’s voice slices through the fog of his preoccupation. “Alright?”

“Sorry, yeah. I was drifting. What did you say?”

“Do you think you’ll be going back to Greece anytime soon?”

“Not that we’re eager to be rid of you,” Carver mumbles into his brisket.

“I would love to, honestly,” Felix admits. “But not until after I finish my thesis—so another half a year at least.” A nebulous amount of time, the end of which is still murky in his mind. When he finishes his degree it’ll be his second full-fledged doctorate, and he still doesn’t know where to go after that.

“It sounds lovely,” Merrill sighs dreamily, somehow not sounding completely envious. “I’m terrible at flying, though, I don’t think I could ever go somewhere so far away.”

“It’s not so bad—I hate flying, too. I would have much rather taken a train.”

“Or ship?” Marian asks, sly but not unkind.

“Depends on the ship, I suppose,” Felix says blandly. “Speaking of which, where is the _Leandra Sky_ these days? You’re not keeping her in the back garden?”

“I think we could make it work,” Carver deadpans. “No, she’s berthed in Cornwall. Blackwall has property there. She’s hibernating for the winter—sorry, _resting_. Bethy doesn’t like the other word.”

“She’s not a _bear_ ,” Beth says with a sniff. “She’s a bird. A beautiful bird of prey.”

“An _old_ bird of prey,” Leandra chimes in. “Not unlike her namesake, I suppose.”

Marian sighs, “Oh Mum, hush. You’re not _old_.”

“And what are you then, my dear? Wasn’t I hearing you complain about the wrinkles around your eyes earlier today?” Leandra smiles, beatific, but there’s a sharp twinkle in her eye that has Felix hiding his smirk in his wineglass. He would pay good money, he thinks, to introduce his mother to Leandra Hawke and watch the snark unfold. “Double standards, my dear. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

When dinner has been more or less cleared away, everyone adjoins to the living room. The candles have almost completely burned out already, leaving behind sooty smudges on the windowpanes like the memory of smoke. Felix finds himself squeezed on the end of the couch next to Carver, but the proximity doesn’t bother him. Carver is warm, like a furnace all his own, and more than once Felix catches himself leaning into him, subconsciously trying to absorb his heat like a lizard in the sun. 

He isn’t expecting a gift—his own is fairly generic, a framed photo of the _Leandra Sky_ with the entire Hawke family standing at the rail in various states of pestering one another, taken from the shore with Fen’s second-best camera—but he receives a few anyway: a hand-knit scarf from Bethy which he promises to cherish, a real coconut-shell case for his glasses from Leandra, and a small bound photobook from Anders and Fenris full of highlights from Greece. And from Carver, a badly-wrapped bundle that tears open without prompting and falls into his lap, pulling a surprised laugh out of him: his leather bomber jacket, lent to Bethany almost a year ago and well forgotten.

“Does it count as regifting?” Carver asks sheepishly.

Felix insists on putting it on and showing it off, to Carver’s embarrassment, proclaiming, “It fits like it was made for me!” In truth, it fits a little differently than before, a little more roomy in the shoulders. When he puts his hands in the pockets he finds his griffon pin that he’d almost forgotten about, gifted to him by Blackwall at the end of their group therapy sessions. He takes it out and spins it between his fingers as the present-opening moves along to other people.

“I’m sorry it took so long to get that back to you,” Carver says, leaning in close enough that he can feel his breath on the shell of his ear. Felix squeezes the little metal griffon tight in his fist and slips it back into the pocket, thumbing the soft, buttery leather as he draws away.

“It’s fine. I hope you got some good use out of it.”

“It saved me from the weather on a few occasions,” Carver admits. He takes a breath as if he’s about to say something else, but Wesley rockets over and tugs him down to the floor to help him open his presents, and Felix is left alone.

In the moment of solitude he flips open the booklet from Anders and Fenris. The very first picture is him and Bethany in their knees in the surf, trying to rescue their lumpy attempt at a sand castle. The others are in much the same vein: on the boat, in the water, the one awful, short-lived attempt at surfing that culminated in Bethany losing her swimsuit top and Felix bruising his knee so badly he was limping for a day afterward.

He’s laughing to himself softly, in his own little world, when he turns to the back of the book and feels his heart stop. Glued into the stiff cardboard backing is a picture of him and Carver from Pride, arms around each other and faces creased with laughter. He can picture the scene so clearly in his mind, feel the longing that had been swelling in his breast.  It would have been the perfect opportunity—a touch, a look, a kiss, gone unnoticed in the larger swell of celebration coiling all around them. But it wasn’t the right time. Looking at the picture, he wonders sadly if it ever will be.

He realizes suddenly that Carver is on his way back to the couch. He snaps the book shut, which is ridiculous, since Carver has probably seen the photo himself and thought nothing of it, but he can’t help the reflex.

“Thank goodness that’s over with,” Carver says with a sigh, collapsing onto the cushions. Satisfied, Wesley is curled in the middle of the floor with his new wooden rocking-horse, a gorgeously detailed piece that looks as if months went into the making of it. “One down, two to go.”

“One down?”

“Celebrations. Y’know, the holiday season. Not to say that I dislike it, but it’s… tiring.”

Felix nods to the pony, which Wesley is pushing back and forth by the head without actually sitting on it. It moves smoothly on well-aligned hinges, clearly made for a lot of wear and tear. “How long did it take you to make that?”

“Ah… a few weeks. I pulled a lot of late nights.”

“Well no wonder you’re tired out after one family dinner,” Felix teases gently, though he appreciates the feeling. Socializing on a scale like this can be wearying. “Are you looking forward to the Gala?”

“I’m looking forward to it being over,” Carver admits. “Sorry, not—that’s not a reflection on you. I just… dancing and making nice, all of that. Not my strong suit.”

“I’ve made a promise to myself to avoid as much of that as possible. I’m only going to talk to my friends if I can help it, and avoid my father as much as possible. I love him dearly, obviously, but the last thing I need is for him to try and wrangle me into dull discussions of the latest political scandal.”

“We’ll be shirkers together, then,” Carver says heartily. He reaches across his body, almost as if to toast their nonexistent glasses, but takes his hand instead. If it was meant to be a handshake it’s a very poor one, gentle and lasting far longer than conventionally appropriate. When he’s released, Felix curls his hand into the soft leather of the jacket, holding the warmth as close as he can until it’s gone.

“It’s a deal,” he says, and wonders how much longer he can take the silence.

///

Carver pulls on the collar of his shirt and gets it slapped away by Bethany. He glares at her, sparkling and ethereal in her silver-blue shift dress with glittering snowflake trim, and tugs on his collar again anyway.

“Carv, stop it! You’re being a beast.”

“What are you talking about? I’m stifling in this, it’s hardly my fault. _Please_ can I take this bloody bowtie off? I feel like a ponce.”

“You’re surrounded by ponces,” Bethany reminds him patiently. “Fine, but be quick about it. And put it in your pocket, don’t just leave it lying around.” She glances across the dance floor, the edge of which is their temporary refuge from the chaos. “Speaking of ponces, where’s yours?”

“My what?”

“Ponce. Felix. Your date? Aren’t you supposed to be dancing attendance on him all evening or something?”

“He went to speak to someone and I couldn’t find him again. Which is why I’m here, being pestered by you.” He tweaks her ear to let her know he doesn’t mind all that much. “What about you? Where’s Mum?” He sees the look in her eye and groans. “Please tell me you didn’t leave her alone with him.”

“What am I, her chaperone? She’s a grown woman, Carver. Besides, I told you, there’s nothing going on.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Carver grumps, but he decides not to think on it too hard. It’s his mum’s business, not his. He scans the room for Felix, hoping, but there’s no sign of him. “Want to dance?”

“Sure,” she says cheerfully, and takes his hand.

He’s not sure yet if he’s having a better time this year than last year. This year he had to actually sit at a table and make small talk and eat with the proper silverware, although the first part wasn’t so bad—they were put at a table with Anders and Alistair and Shani, so the conversation flowed smoothly for the most part, when he wasn’t distracted by the eyes Seamus Dumar was making at his date for the evening, Ashaad Adaar. At least it took the heat off of him and Felix. So far he’s counted five compliments on their coordinating attire, and while he’s still braced for the _are you two an item now?_ question, it has yet to surface.

Across the slope of Bethany’s bare shoulder he suddenly catches sight of a velvety black suit and blood-crimson waistcoat. Felix is standing across the room on the sidelines, holding a small dessert plate and looking uncomfortable. At his side, none other than Maxwell Trevelyan, blond, slimy, and standing a little too close for Carver’s comfort. He growls in his throat unintentionally and Bethy whips her head around.

“What on earth—ohhhh no. That’s not allowed.”

Somehow, in spite of her diminutive stature, she maneuvers them in that direction, and on the next spin Carver can see that Felix has caught sight of them and his trying to subtly flag him down with his facial expressions. “Bethy,” he hisses, embarrassed, but she steps on his toe and he steps back, ever closer to the edge of the floor.

“Come on,” Bethany coaxes in an urgent whisper. “Just dance with him. For me.”

“Ugh.” He looks away from her pleading puppy eyes and straight into Felix’s, aching at him from across the dance floor. Fuck it. “Fine. You can stop with the kicked dog look, I’m going.” 

He straightens his suit as he navigates through the crowd. Max is still there as the song winds down, practically hanging off his arm and cheerfully oblivious to Felix’s discomfited expression. The beast inside him raises its hackles. Okay, Hawke, time to come to the rescue. 

He sweeps up like he owns the entire venue, chest puffed and chin up so that he’s got easily a couple centimeters on Trevelyan’s perfect movie-star height, and slips his arm through Felix’s elbow. “Hello darling,” he drawls, delighting in the pretty shade of pink Felix turns at the endearment. That’s promising. “Saved a dance for me, did you?”

“Of course,” Felix says hastily. “Sorry Max, maybe later.”

Carver sweeps them into the crowd of dancers and they’re lost, swept out to sea in a whirl of light and color. Felix grips his shoulder fervently, tipping his head up to speak over the music. 

“ _Marshmallow World_?” he asks, incredulous. “Really?”

“You looked like you needed a rescue. Hey, at least it’s just instrumental.”

Right on cue, a muted trumpet blares with jazzy dissonance, and Felix hunches his shoulders against the horrible sound. “I hate you.” 

“You love me,” Carver shoots back lightly, almost without thinking. Felix glares determinedly past Carver’s shoulder, which gives him an excellent view of the tips of his ears turning pink.

And then he falls quiet, uncertain how to carry the conversation. He leads them in a slightly modified box step, thinking suddenly to this very evening exactly a year ago, when Felix had asked him to dance and he had turned him down. This is what he had missed: the solid warmth of him in his arms, his breath against his neck, the occasional apologetic grimace when he flubs a step. He wonders if things would be different between them now, if he’d accepted Felix’s offer. If they would have clicked, then, if the physical closeness of a dance would have sparked something between them that would have brought them together months and months ago. He wonders if he’s left it too late, now, if whatever small and tender thing now budding in his ribcage is destined to wither and die before it blooms. 

The song ends, and so do his melancholy thoughts. Now is not the time to lose hope, not while Felix is flushed and grinning at him with the exertion of their dance, breathing in a way that Carver can feel against his sternum. He offers his arm, like a gentleman, and walks him off the dance floor. 

“Have you ever actually told him ‘no?’” Carver wonders mildly as they make their way to the edge of the room together. “Maxwell, I mean. Or just the tired old ‘I’m not looking for anything serious right now’ excuse?”

Felix hems and haws. “Er… well…”

“Thought so. You should try it. Or, you know,” he takes a breath, tries not to betray his nerves, “I could pull the jealous boyfriend card again and scare him off if you’re too nice to do it yourself.” 

Felix stares at him, bug-eyed. “I mean, you don’t—have to, I…”

“Think nothing of it,” Carver brushes him off as they come to a standstill at the edge of the floor. Max is a little ways down, watching them obtrusively from the corner of his eye. “It doesn’t have to be complicated. Sweetheart.” He winks and leans in to brush a quick kiss to his cheek, just above the line of his beard. He tries to hold his breath, but a whiff of his scent still finds its way into his nose—aloe and sweat and spicy, fragrant beard oil—and his heart is hammering in his chest as he pulls away. “Thanks for the dance.”

Felix is staring at him. “Er.”

“Try not to look like you just got run over by a lorry. You’re ruining the illusion.” He forces some kind of smile and escapes. He needs to find Bethy and a stiff drink, not necessarily in that order, before he does something monumentally stupid. 

///

“What. The fuck. Was that.” 

Felix inhales so sharply he sees spots. “I don’t know.” He lets Dorian lead him through the crowd and to an empty table, though he barely feels it. “Did I dream that? Everything is so fuzzy… Is this what it feels like to have a heart attack?”

“Don’t go toward the light,” Dorian says drily. “Here, drink.”

Felix takes it without looking and chokes when he throws back straight whiskey instead of water. “ _Jesus_.” 

“Better?” 

He looks at the last swallow or two in the glass and drinks it down, cringing. “Maybe a little. Thanks.” 

“So?” Dorian prompts. “You haven’t answered my question. What the fuck was that?”

“He was just playing a role,” Felix murmurs, still feeling the tingle of Carver’s lips against his skin. “To try and get Max to back off.”

“Looked pretty real from where I was standing.” 

“Dor…” he says, warningly, though he’s not even sure why he bothers anymore. 

“What? Did it not feel real to you?”

He twists his hands in his lap and recalls the delicious feeling of Carver’s strong arms around him, one broad hand at the small of his back and his firm chest against his own whenever they pulled tight together. Carver’s lips, smooth and warm, a little bit menthol-y with lip balm, touching down far too briefly against his cheek. He shivers. “It did. Feel real.”

Dorian leans in and squeezes his knee, looking into his face even though Felix’s eyes are still averted. “Did you ever stop to think,” he says, voice pitched low and kind, “that it feels real because it  _is_  real?” 

Before Felix can compose some kind of coherent reply, Dorian pats his knee briskly and stands. “Think about it.” Then he wanders off whistling, hands in his pockets, leaving Felix behind with an empty glass and far too many thoughts swirling about in his overstuffed head. 

///

Carver hasn’t been to Dorian and Cullen’s place in a while—he’s forgotten how massively sprawling it is. By now every detail has been refined and finished, every last dropcloth disposed of, all the renovations done and dusted, and the house smells like firewood and evergreen and cinnamon instead of spackling and paint. And, best of all, there’s plenty of alcohol. He’s going to need it.

Felix meets them at the door, already apple-cheeked and holding a glass of wine in one hand. He sets it aside to greet them and forgets about it, but Carver doesn’t have the wherewithal to remind him—his tongue feels like lead in his mouth, heavy and useless, and it’s _stupid_ , he doesn’t know why he feels like this. He can always talk to Felix. Even when they were first getting to know one another Felix made it easy. It’s baffling to him that now, with a year of friendship under their belts, he can barely get two words to come out right in his presence.

Like now, for instance. Felix takes his coat with a beaming smile, and he stutters out a “Thanks” that gets drowned out by everyone else piling in behind him: Merrill, Bethany, Fenris, Anders, Varric, Marian, and Isabela, which is a headache and a half all by itself. They exclaim over the décor and thank Felix profusely for his doorman services and suddenly Carver is standing by himself in the front hall, holding Felix’s abandoned glass of wine and watching everyone disappear down the hall to join the rest of the party.

Well, not quite everyone. Fenris remains, an unobtrusive figure in forest green so dark it’s almost black, fingers flicking delicately at the swoop of grey-white hair falling artfully over his forehead.

“Well? Is there a reason you look like you have a whole jar of bees hidden under your clothes?”

Carver takes a breath. “I don’t know.”

He feels it in his bones that something is different about today. After the Gala, with Felix in his arms and Bethany passing him meaningful looks over the punch bowl, he feels strung out and jittery, like there’s something he forgot to do—like he’s left the stove on, or is a day late on the rent. But saying that aloud just sounds stupid, so he doesn’t. Fenris offers a consoling half-smile.

“It’ll be all right, Hawke. Come along. Perhaps a glass or two of wine will put you at ease.”

There’s a lot of people in the house. Most of the activity is happening in the parlor, where his bookshelves still stand resplendent and adorned with evergreen boughs, but there are people in the kitchen and in the halls and in the billiards room, where a large punch bowl threatens to lay the entire crowd out flat in a matter of hours. He’s seen Varric pouring _something_  into it twice now, and he decides it’s best to avoid it.

The mulled wine, at least, seems safe. Felix appears to be in charge of manning it, an elegant silver bowl sitting on a side table in the parlor that steams fragrantly and draws a constant spool of people seeking refills. Carver stays close to it and the warmth of the fire, cradling his mulled wine, content to stand on the sidelines. Fenris occasionally stops by to check on him, but he doesn’t much feel like talking and eventually he leaves him be.

As midnight wears nearer, he hunts down a glass of water to chase away some of the alcohol buzzing in his system and ends up running into Bethany. She links their elbows and smiles, leaning into him, and she smells like flowers and spice. There’s a crown of silk daisies in her hair that wasn’t there before.

“You look pretty,” he tells her, knocking their hips together. “Where’d you get the flowers?”

“Merrill. She just brought them in her purse. Isn’t that funny?” She giggles into her mug of cider and leans into him. “She’s just the sweetest, oddest creature.”

“Yes, she is.” Carver eyes her, the sooty color of her lashes and the flush tinting her cheeks. “Where is she now?”

“I think she’s in the bathroom. Carv, do you think she would want to get coffee if I asked?”

“Definitely,” he says, more reflex than thought. What is happening? Why is everyone pairing off without him? “Are you going to give her a kiss for New Year’s?”

“We’ll see.” She cranes her neck to look at the time and squeezes his arm tightly. “It’s a quarter to! Are you going to find someone to kiss at midnight?”

Carver swallows. “Do you think I should?”

Bethany turns her eyes on him, limpid but serious. “I think you should do whatever you think is right. But yeah. I really think you should kiss him. Um. Someone.” She bites back laughter at her own stumbling. “It doesn’t have to be anyone in _particular_ …”

“You’re bad at this game, Bethy. Go find Merrill. And tell her I want a flower crown, too.”

“Ooh! Good idea!”

She disappears in an instant, leaving him adrift in the middle of the room. He spots Marian and Isabela necking in the corner and makes a face. Maybe he needs a refill on his mulled wine after all.

Bethany returns a few minutes later with Merrill in tow and they bestow him with a flower crown made of buttercups and baby’s breath—the former of which is fake, made of delicate yellow silk, and the latter of which is real, little dried specks of foamy white that prickle his scalp a bit, but Bethany declares that it makes him look “sweet and soft,” and he supposes that’s not such a bad thing.

“You look like a fairy prince,” Merrill says dreamily, her own head wreathed in a bouquet of irises and tiny peonies.

Absurdly, the sentiment gives him a sudden boost of confidence. He looks around for Felix. He and the carafe are nowhere to be seen, and the festivities are still going strong without him, a swirl of light and laughter and the steady, monotonous tick of the grandfather clock marking down the last few minutes of the old year. He takes a deep breath. Carver the woodsman is too shy to tell him how he feels, but maybe Carver the fairy prince will have better luck.

“I think he’s in the kitchen,” Bethany whispers, and he’s not even a little bit surprised that she read his mind so well. He squeezes her one-armed and drains his mulled wine. It’s 11:56 and he’s going to do this. He’s going to tell Felix he loves him.

The rest of the house is tomb-like after the bustle of the sitting room, and Carver breathes it in deeply. He loves every soul back there—even Isabela, he admits grudgingly to himself, allowed by the slight inebriation carrying him along—but the peace and quiet of the twisting hallways is a balm to his fevered cheeks. He lets his fingers trail along the antique olive-branch paper and turns into the dining room. It’s 11:57.

He can see Felix through the darkened room. The kitchen is dimly lit, brightened a little more by the fairy lights strung over the windows and door-lintels, and Felix is washed in the soft atonal glow as he bends over the counter with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. He seems to be having a bit of trouble—his shoulders strain and he gives a soft curse when the cork crumbles a bit at the top.

“Need help?” Carver asks, padding into the kitchen.

Felix whirls, then relaxes and laughs softly, a little ruefully. “Apparently I do. This one’s tricky.”

“I’ve got it,” Carver says. He takes over the bottle and situates the cork. Felix hasn’t moved very far, and their elbows brush warmly when he draws the cork up and out with a soft pop. It’s 11:58.

“You’ve got the magic touch.” Felix slides his glass over and Carver pours it in a thin, professional stream before passing it back.

“No more mulled?”

“No, we’ve just run out and it would take too much time to make more. I think people are buzzed enough to make do; I just wanted something to toast with.” Felix doesn’t look all that eager to rejoin the others, though.  Perhaps he’s enjoying the calm away from the storm, too. “Do you want some?”

“I left my glass back there.”

“It’s all right. More where that came from.” He turns and reaches up to fetch a wine glass from the cupboard. It’s a little out of his normal reach and the hem of his jumper rides up a touch, showing an inch or two of warm, caramel skin hidden under his lumpy home-made Christmas sweater. Carver is slow to drag his eyes away. He doesn’t know if Felix notices, but he doesn’t mind. It’s 11:59.

“Here.” Felix holds the glass delicately by the stem and Carver pours. When he takes the glass from him, their fingers brush. “Nice flower crown.”

“Thanks. Merrill was passing them out, earlier.” He tries to pretend he’s not blushing, and he’s not sure how successful he is. “We could get you one if you wanted.”

“That’s all right. I’m content to just admire yours.”

Jesus. They’re standing so close he can almost taste Felix’s breath on his tongue, and it’s making him dizzy. He scrambles for some sense of normalcy, grateful when his voice doesn’t crack with nerves. “We’re missing the countdown, I think.” Through the walls they can hear the others chanting— _Twenty-three! Twenty-two! Twenty-one! Twenty!_ —and Felix shakes his head, smiling.

“It’s all right. I could use a break from the noise.” His dark eyes twinkle with fairy lights as they smile up at Carver, and they look as if they’re full of stars.

Carver glances up, and his chest tightens with a little thrill when he sees the sprig of mistletoe hanging patiently from the chandelier. When he looks back down, Felix has seen it too—his lips are parted as if on the cusp of speaking, but no words come. Carver leans down slow. It’s midnight.

At the last moment, Felix gives a little gasp and turns his head, and Carver’s lips bump fruitlessly against his cheek. He withdraws abruptly, belly curdling. “I’m sorry. I thought—well, I assumed. I shouldn’t have. Sorry.” He’s fumbling, the ground he thought so sure beneath his feet crumbling like soft cork. He backs away, wine still in hand, and tries to turn back toward the dining room.

“Carver. Wait, please.”

He doesn’t mean to stop, but Felix’s hand on his elbow is soft and paralyzing. “You don’t have to explain,” Carver tells the floor,  pinched with self-consciousness.

“But I do.” Felix croaks a dead laugh, and it scours at the surface of Carver’s discomfort until he’s raw with it. “I really do. You deserve that much.”

“If you don’t want this, it’s fine, there’s nothing more to say. You’re my friend, Fee. I don’t want to ruin that.”

Felix flinches at the pet name, and maybe Carver feels a little bit vindictive, but it’s hard not to when his stomach is roiling with unhappiness. _How_ could he have misread things so badly? Fairy prince indeed. “Carver, it’s not what you think.”

Carver feels immensely tired all of a sudden. “Does it matter? The fact is that you don’t want this. Right?”

Felix is silent.

“Right. So. Friends it is. It’s fine. I get it.”

This time when he pulls away, Felix doesn’t try to stop him. He keeps waiting for him to call him back. He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drops everything and runs away* In all seriousness, don't worry. Things are gonna be okay. Other notes: the "lizard in the sun" line is adapted from a Jezabels song, "The End." Thanks to krem-de-le-creme for the flower crown idea!
> 
> And there will be a Sunday update this week as usual. <3


	18. 18.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> silly warning for this chapter: so much fluff you might choke. 
> 
> serious warning for this chapter: discussion of HIV.

Returning to the main room is like stepping into a thunderclap—there’s a burst of noise, the clink of glasses and a roaring cheer, and Carver flinches back as if struck. He’s still holding his wine glass, and a little bit sloshes onto his shoe and leaves blood-red droplets on the shag rug.

In the middle of the room, Dorian is hauling Cullen up off the floor by his shirt-collar for a very messy, very public kiss. Carver’s eyes stray to the glint of the simple white-gold band that has appeared on Dorian’s hand, and his stomach tightens, conflicted. He’s happy for them, of course he is—and oh, fuck, he’s gone and missed the whole thing, but at least no one seemed to notice his absence—but all he can think about is Felix, his sad eyes and the cold scrape of his beard against Carver’s lips.

He finds Beth blindly, standing at the edge of the room with a wide smile that falls off her face as soon as she spots him. He doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing—his face feels numb, devoid of emotion—but he knows he must look like _something_ , or she wouldn’t be watching him like this, like she’s watching someone lean out over the edge of a terrifically high cliff with the intention to drop. Reaching her takes forever, it seems like, fighting his way through the tumultuous warp and weft of the room, but when he finds her she reaches out for him and pulls him to her without even asking _why_.

“I’m ready to go,” he says into her walnut-shell hair, still threaded through with daisies. Her hand is soft and feather-light against the back of his neck, like waking up from an old dream to find the moon still streaming through the windowpane. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay.” Bless her. Bless her silence, her acquiescence. She takes his hand and he follows, the two of them slipping away while the celebration rages like a dying sun in the room behind them.

He doesn’t remember leaving the house, but the wet night air is a slap in the face. He stands on the doorstep for a minute and fumbles in his pocket, checking for his oyster card—a part of him wishes he’d brought his mum’s car instead, but he knows he’s in no condition to drive. Bethany stands on the step just below him, arms folded tightly across her body. They’ve forgotten their coats.

“I’ll get them,” he mumbles, but Bethany shakes her head, touches his arm. She’s in and out of the house in a moment and he pulls on his coat numbly. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks softly, zipping her own jacket up to her chin. Her hair slaps against her cheek, wet and bedraggled—her flower crown looks as dilapidated as Carver feels. In a sudden fit of helpless emotion, he yanks his own flower crown off his head and chucks it into the bushes.

“Not really.” He hunches his shoulders against the drizzle and turns away. After a moment of silence Bethany’s soft pattering feet follow him, and her arm tucks through his. He pretends not to see the buttercups poking out of her jacket pocket.

“Are you sure? Sweetie, I’m so sorry I pushed you into it.”

“You didn’t push me. I just… I thought something was there, and it wasn’t. That’s all.”

She’s quiet for a moment. At the end of the street they can see the tube station, glowing with the promise of shelter from the cold and damp, and they walk a little faster. “Do you want to stay at Mum’s tonight?”

He shakes his head, past words.

Getting on the escalator feels like pulling off a plaster slowly, pain drawn out and amplified. The ride back to Highbury Hill is quiet and dark—the tunnels pass by the window in a blurred susurrus of grey, and the station lights shine against his eyes, turning every shadow into a prickling, moving shape ready to pounce. When they get off at Highbury and make the long walk up the hill to their mum’s, he’s cold and heavy-headed, stuffed with cotton fluff instead of blood and bone. Bethany turns to him at the front door and takes his hand, almost as if she wants to drag him inside and ply him with tea and blankets, but instead she just says, “Carver. Can you at least tell me what happened?”

What _did_ happen? He’s half-sure he almost dreamed it. But the burn of Felix’s stubble is still on his lips, unmistakable. Irrevocable. “I tried to kiss him. In the kitchen. We were standing under mistletoe, and he was smiling at me—he looked so happy, Bethy. Like he wanted to kiss me, too. But… he didn’t.”

“Oh, Carver.”

Unbearable. He steals his hand back and rubs it over tired face, stubble rasping like sandpaper against his palms. “I’ll see you later, okay Beth?”

She sighs. “Okay.” And doesn’t open the door. 

“Beth…”

“I know, just—hang on. Carver, _please_ , tell me you’re not giving up this easily.”

“Believe me, no part of this could be categorized as _easy_.” If only he could just walk away from her, but he can’t, and he can’t go inside, so they’re left standing in the misty midnight garden on their mum’s front stoop, in a painful limbo where he can’t step forward but he can’t go back. He just _is_.

“What if he was just surprised? You tried to kiss him, Carv, really? You couldn’t use your words?”

“It seemed like the perfect opportunity,” Carver mumbles, shamefaced. “There was mistletoe and everything.”

“But what if he _did_ want to kiss you, he just wasn’t prepared? What if…” She chews her lower lip as if holding herself back. As if there’s something she’s aching to say, but can’t. “Carver, there’s more to the story. I know it.”

An inkling prickles in the back of his mind, a thought that’s crossed it many times before without ever really taking root. “You know something, don’t you. Something you can’t tell me.”

Bethany looks at her shoes, daisies drooping sadly over her forehead. “I wish I could, but it’s not my place.”

“He told you… what? What could be such a big secret that he could share with you and not me?” Against his own wishes, he’s angry. He was Felix’s friend first. What is it about Bethany, sweet as she is, that Felix felt he could confide to her but not him? “Is it… Beth, please, for the love of god, if he’s in love with you…”

“ _What_? Carv, honestly, you have the strangest ideas. It’s not that. I promise.” She squeezes his hand tightly, coaxing some of the blood back into his frozen fingers. “You’ll have to ask him. Just… please, Carver, please don’t give up on him. I promise that he’s just as scared as you are.”

 _Scared of what? Of me?_ Carver burns with curiosity, but he knows better than to press her on this. “All right. If you say so. I’ll just… I need to get my head in order. I’ll talk to you later, okay? I’m sorry for making you leave early.” He blanches. “And Merrill…”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” She smiles faintly and leans in for a hug, which he gives her, lifting her a few inches off the ground. “She understands.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.” She backs away, finally, and puts her hand on the door. “Be safe, Carv. Text me when you get home.”

“I will.” There’s an idea burning in the back of his mind, but he’s not ready to voice it out loud yet. “Sleep tight. Tell Mum hello for me when you see her.”

“Probably in the morning.” She blows him an air kiss. “Good night, baby brother. I love you.”

“Love you too, Bethy.” He puts his hands in his pockets and steps back through the front gate. Instead of heading back down the hill, though, he heads up it, thumbing through his phone for a taxi service. His night isn’t over yet.

///

Felix can hear the explosion of sound where he stands bereft in the middle of the kitchen, wine glass suddenly unbearably heavy in his hand. _He said yes._ Not surprising. Trembling, Felix sets the glass down on the counter instead of throwing it across the room like he wants to. He can’t imagine wanting to drink wine ever again in his life, with the memory now burned into his brain of Carver curled around the bottleneck like a bear around a honeypot.

The first hitching breath is a surprise. He puts a hand to his chest, but the ache isn’t medical. A puff or two of his inhaler, tucked away in the pocket of his coat in the entryway, isn’t going to help. Another breath, cracking, and then his throat begins to burn and he can’t see properly. Fuck. He can’t go back to the sitting room like this, with everyone shouting their congratulations and falling over one another to celebrate the newly betrothed couple. He knows he should _want_ to—Dorian is his best friend, for heaven’s sake, and Cullen has been a rock and a comfort to him almost from the very start. He should be happier than anyone that they’re finally going to make honest men of each other. But his chest feels like it’s slowly collapsing in on itself, and he can’t seem to stop crying.

Ove the happy hubbub, he hears Dorian say something about breaking out the champagne. Time to leave. Dorian stumbling over him snot-nosed and on the verge of a breakdown is the very last thing that needs to happen right now. Almost tripping over his own feet, he fumbles with the lock for the sliding door and staggers into the cold air, slamming it behind him hard enough to rattle his teeth. It’s cold but not freezing, and he grabs at the back of his neck as he paces the small garden, cursing himself and scuffing his feet against the frosty sandstone walk.

“Why the fuck did you _do_ that,” he whispers to himself, teeth gritted and eyes prickling behind his lids. Slowly, he gets control of himself. His glasses are fogged with the heat of his anger and he wishes he’d brought his wine out with him after all just so he’d have something to shatter. Instead he throws himself down on a cold stone bench and leans forward, burying his face in his arms and jogging his knee frantically up and down in an effort to keep everything from spilling out.

“Felix?”

He jerks upright with a gasp, breath billowing white in front of his face. He rubs his nose surreptitiously and looks away as Dorian closes the sliding door gently behind him. “Hey, Dor.” His voice sounds sort of normal. Almost. At this distance, perhaps he won’t be able to tell.

“Are you all right? Maker, you look wretched, and Carver just slipped out looking like a storm cloud—did something happen?”

His breath is starting to grow erratic again—and just when he’d almost gotten himself under control. He shudders and scrubs his face with his hands, trying to get a grip. “Dorian, I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“What do you mean?” He comes down the steps to the garden, unconcerned by his lack of coat; unlike Felix, who at least has the benefit of a cozy jumper, Dorian is wearing a satin-finish button-down rolled up to the elbows, the top three buttons undone to show a generous sliver of throat. And on his left hand, glinting faintly in the ambient light filtering down from the kitchen, a silver ring. Felix looks away. “Fee, tell me what’s going on. Please.”

“You should go back inside,” Felix chokes, palms pressed to the sockets of his eyes. “Don’t let me ruin your night.”

“Fuck _my night_ ,” Dorian snaps. “You’re my best friend, Fee. I’m honor-bound to destroy anyone who hurts you, which means you need to talk to me.” He sits beside him on the bench without a breath of complaint about the cold and puts one arm immediately around Felix’s shoulders—and because he’s weak, Felix leans into him and shivers gratefully against his friendly, familiar heat. “So,” Dorian says, more gently now, “talk.”

Felix sighs deeply and lets it out, throat tight. “Carver, um. Tried to kiss me in the kitchen.”

Dorian stiffens a little but doesn’t pull away. “ _Tried_? Was it unwelcome?”

“It—no, it wasn’t _unwelcome_ , it was… I don’t know what it was. I wasn’t expecting it. I mean, I suppose I was, I just never believed he’d actually—” He breaks off and covers his mouth with one hand, just breathing. “Dorian, I’ve ruined everything.”

“Hush, now. Nothing’s ruined, darling, just set back a pace or two. Nothing that can’t be fixed, if that’s what you wish.” One long-fingered hand pets the back of his head, fingernails scraping through his short hair right where it feels best. “ _Is_ that what you wish?”

“I don’t know,” Felix says miserably. “I mean—fuck, I shouldn’t have turned my head away. I was just—I realized I would have to tell him, about… about me, and what kind of fucking first kiss is that, on New Year’s Eve, oh, sorry, I forgot to mention _I have AIDS_.”

“You don’t have AIDS, Felix, don’t be dramatic.”

“Near enough, for most people. And I can’t—I can’t get attached any more than I already am, and then have it all blow up in my face because we didn’t have _the_ _talk_ before he went and kissed me and made me fall in love with him.”

A beat of silence. “Oh, Fee.”

“Don’t _oh, Fee_ me,” Felix whispers, but the protest has no weight behind it.

“Forgive me, but again, I think you might be slightly… underestimating him. God, I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Dorian mutters in an aside to himself. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still kill him if he hurts yo, but… consider. He’s a gay man who’s proven to be quite active in promoting education and awareness in the queer community—not just the Gala, but his work at the Knight Club and with Alistair Theirin. That man has more pies than fingers. He’s not _most people_. Do you really think he would be scared away so easily?”

Felix moans and covers his face with his hands again. “I don’t know. Maybe not,” he says, voice muffed against his palms. His head is starting to pound with the circles running through it, and he wishes he hadn’t had quite so much wine over the course of the evening. “But it’s too late now, isn’t it? He stormed off, he thinks I hate him. Or at the very least don’t return his feelings, which is, god, the _farthest_ thing from the truth. Ugh! Why didn’t I tell him sooner!”

“You don’t owe him, or anyone else, a single damn thing, Fee. Your status is your business.”

“Until it becomes someone else’s, and they decide I’m not worth the trouble.” He hunches forward, thinking of the handful of times he’s tried relationships since university, all of them crashing and burning in a variety of ways, partly because of them and partly—if he’s honest—because of him. His own fears and insecurities poisoning the water until they got fed up and dropped him out of their lives. It was the least he deserved, and he knows it, but he can’t help being terrified of what he would do if that happened with Carver. Better to live in silence, being happy with what he has, than risk losing everything.

His phone pings softly against his hip, yanking him abruptly out of his cloud of misery. He fumbles it out of his pocket and stares at the screen. It’s from Carver.

_are you at home?_

Felix nearly drops his phone in surprise and the sudden sweep of giddy terror that washes over him. Is he being given a second chance? Or is he just hallucinating? He takes an unsteady breath and shows it to Dorian. “What do I say?”

“Are we in primary school now?” Dorian inquires gently, but he’s smiling. “Looks like someone wants to kiss and make up.”

“If anything _I_ should be the one to do the making up.” Felix stares at the screen until it goes dark, taking Carver’s message with it. His stomach is a black hole, empty, endless. He wakes it up again and slides his thumb across the screen to unlock it.

_No, I’m at Dorian’s._

The wait between texts feels unbearable, but in reality it’s only twenty seconds or so before the reply comes in. _there’s some stuff I wanted to say to you. I was hoping to do it in person._

“Keep it light, Alexius,” he whispers to himself, ignoring Dorian’s derisive grunt. _Anything good?_

_I hope so. It’s not champagne and roses, but give me six hours and a trip to the grocery and I’ll see what I can do._

Feeling like he’s been hit in the stomach, he takes a breath and shows the screen to Dorian. “What do you think?”

“Well, champagne sounds promising.” He smiles encouragingly, but makes no move to tell him what to do. Felix’s gut is churning. He stands up and paces back and forth a bit before he forces his shaking fingers to dial the number he knows by heart.

Carver picks up immediately. “Fee?”

Goddammit. His heart breaks. “Yeah.”

“Is that a yes to the champagne, then?”

Felix huffs a dry laugh. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

“I… look.” He can hear Carver swallow, and knowing he’s just as nervous as Felix is eases his fears somewhat. “I just feel like there was stuff left unsaid, and after I stormed out—at the very least I owe you an apology. But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Say the word and I’ll back of, and we can just go back to the way things were before.” A pause. “ _Do_ you want me to back off?”

Felix takes an unsteady breath. _Take the plunge, Alexius_. “No.”

“Oh. Well. Good, then.”

Felix hesitates, and so does Carver. _Don’t just stand there like a lump on a log, say something!_ “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what to say.” He glances back at Dorian, who makes a fond little _go ahead_ motion with his hands. “I think I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

“You think?” Carver echoes, teasing.

“No. I do. I know I do. I’m just… I haven’t done this in a while. Talked to somebody. About… a relationship.”

“Neither have I.” He sounds more relaxed and confident with every syllable, and Felix finds it’s a little easier to breathe. “I’m a bit shit at it, to be honest. So if you’re worried about making a hash of it, don’t be. We’re in this together.”

 _God, I hope so._ Felix rubs his free hand on his trousers. “Thank you. Um. About what happened.”

Carver huffs something that might be a laugh. “Yeah. About that. I’m sorry for springing on you like that, it wasn’t fair of me.”

“No, it was—it was adorable. Would have been adorable, if I hadn’t panicked. Which I’m sorry for.”

“That’s the apologies out of the way, then,” Carver says. The timbre of his voice through the phone is crackling but warm, like a fire; Felix can feel the tips of his ears and his nose starting to heat up against the cold air. “Um.”

“There’s a reason I hesitated,” Felix says boldly into the silence, far more boldly than he actually feels. His free hand skitters out some kind of frenetic pattern against his thigh, and he digs his toe into the white-rimed flagstones just to give his twitchy limbs something to do. “Um. I… it’s not that I don’t like you. Because I do, a lot.” _I love you_. “It’s just… I have a thing.”

“A thing,” Carver repeats blankly. Felix is on the verge of clarifying when he blurts out, “Is this because you’re ill?”

He feels like he’s been struck. He inhales sharply and holds it a moment before releasing it back into the wintry air in a puff of desaturated white. “How did you know?”

“We’ve been friends for more than a year, Fee,” comes the gentle reply. “No one’s told me, and you’re very good at keeping it on the low, but… there are signs, I guess. I don’t know the specifics,” he hastens to add, “and I haven’t been prying, honest. But I’ve lived with chronic illness for a long time—first my Da, then Bethy, so. I’ve picked up on a few things.”

“Oh.” Felix deflates like a balloon, uncertain of where to go next. Through the phone he can hear Carver breathing, and he finds he’s unconsciously matched his breaths to his. In, out. In, out.

“Whatever it is,” Carver says lowly, “you should know that I’m… prepared. I guess. If that makes any difference at all. I don’t scare easily, and I’m not gonna kick you to the kerb once the hard shit starts. That goes for whether we’re friends, or… more. If that turns out to be something we both want.”

God, how Felix wants it. But he refrains from saying it, instead choking out an “I’m” before losing his nerve. He pauses, swallowing past the stop in his throat. “I’m HIV positive, Carv.”

The words feel bulky coming out of his mouth—it’s been so long since he’s had to outright _tell_ anyone. Or had the inclination to. The last time didn’t really work out so well, and he’s hoping fiercely with every fiber of his being that this time turns out differently. He scrubs his face roughly, trying to coax life back into his numb cheeks, and turns to see Dorian watching him from the bench, face taut and eyes sharp. He’s suddenly absurdly grateful that Dorian is here, standing with him in quiet solidarity as he listens to the silence gaping in his ear.

There’s a little bit of rustling on the other end and a muttered curse. Felix longs to see his face, to have some kind of reference point to go on, but at the same time he’s glad to have this enforced space between them—a tenuous kind of shield protecting his heart from breaking any further.

“It’s a bit of a deal-breaker,” he hears himself saying, desperate to fill the awful silence. “For, um, most people. Tends to scare them off. And I don’t really blame them. The stigma is… hard to get past.”

Nothing. The only way Felix is sure that he’s still there is the deep, measured breaths coming through the phone. Dorian is looking at him expectedly, brows furrowed. Felix clears his throat. “Carv?”

There’s a burst of static in his ear and Carver says, “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m here. I just… I’m trying not to swear.” He gives a strangled laugh. “I want to be offended that you think I could be capable of… of tossing you aside like garbage. But I know it’s not me you’re afraid of, is it? It’s all those other assholes who decided you weren’t worth the risk.”

So much for a shield. The words slice into him like a blade, cutting him to the quick—and oh, fuck, now his eyelids are burning. “Thank you. I—I’m doing good. I mean, I take a pill every day with dinner, but my levels aren’t even noticeable anymore.”

“When were you diagnosed?” Carver asks quietly, nudging around the edges of a bigger question without pressing.

“Five years ago. I… was stupid in college.” He shrugs, shifting the enormous, familiar weight back to ground. “For the record, um. It was really hard to turn my head.”

It takes a second for Carver to make the connection, and then he huffs a soft laugh directly into Felix’s ear. “Yeah, well. I guess that’s my bruised ego restored. Um. So. I guess… it still stands. I mean. You’re my friend before anything else, and you’re incredibly important to me regardless. But. I _am_ interested in you, still. Really interested. So if you wanted to make a go of it, consider me fully on board.”

“You’re certain?” His voice quavers, but Carver is nice enough not to mention it. “Not to scare you off, because that’s the _last_ thing I want to do, but… sometimes I still struggle with it. It was the biggest part of my life for over a year, and that hasn’t completely gone away.”

“I’m a big boy,” Carver says, not missing a beat. “And this is me, right now, saying that _yes_ I want to be a part of your life, in whatever capacity you’ll have me. Obviously you know which capacity I’d prefer, but… I can handle just being friends. If that’s what you want.”

Felix closes his eyes. “I want more than that. A lot more. Just… promise you’ll be patient with me?”

“Fee.” His voice sounds thick through the phone, and he waits a moment or two before carrying on. “Listen, it’s fine. I know it’s going to take some time. I mean, if we do this… we should take it slow. So. Don’t answer right away, if you don’t feel ready. I just wanted you to know how I feel. Um. About you.”

“Thank you,” Felix whispers after a small eternity in which his heart does somersaults and his palms sweat and he can feel Dorian’s gaze on him like a tangible weight keeping him anchored to the ground. “I… that feels so inadequate, but I mean it sincerely. Thank you.”

“Of course. Thank you—for telling me what you did, I mean. That can’t have been easy.” Carver’s voice is warm and familiar in his ear, and for a little while Felix just stands there like a fool, smiling down at his shoes and enjoying the companionable quiet. Eventually, Carver clears his throat. “Just so you know, I’m still peeved that you rejected my New Year’s kiss.”

Felix grins and scuff the frosty ground with his boot heel. “I’m sorry. Such a wasted opportunity.”

“It really is. We could be in front of the fire right now doing unspeakable things to each other.”

“Unspeakable things?” he drawls, stomach aflutter with an odd combination of nerves and excitement. From the other end, Carver’s soft laugh crackles in his ear.

“Yeah, you know. Holding hands. Breathing in sync. Romantic shit like that.”

Oh, god. He swipes at his eyes and turns away from Dorian’s knowing gaze. “You’re breaking my heart here, Carver.”

“I’m sorry,” Carver murmurs sincerely. “I was hoping for the opposite.”

“I guess it’s sort of a mix,” Felix confesses. “I—god, I’m sorry, you’re standing out in the cold in front of an empty apartment and I’m all the way over here like a bloody idiot…”

“Hey. Stop, it’s fine. I’d rather be with you, obviously, because you sound like you could use the world’s biggest hug right now, but… this is fine. This is good. Thank you for calling me. Hearing your voice…”

“Yeah.” He tucks his free hand beneath the opposite arm, clenching his fingers against his side. “I should let you go home, shouldn’t I.”

“If you want,” Carver says easily. “I don’t mind. Honestly I’ve been walking this entire time. I think I’ve passed three tube stations since I accepted your call.”

Felix chokes down laughter. “Well get on one of them, silly, before your fingers and toes freeze off.”

“It’s not that cold outside. And I run hot, anyway.” _Yes, you do_ , Felix agrees in the privacy of his own head. “So, um, roses? The next time I see you?”

“When?” he asks, and he suddenly wants nothing more than for the answer to be _right now, immediately_ , no matter how improbable it is.

“I have the next two days off work. Tell me where and when and I’ll be there.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“Text me,” Carver says, infinitely patient. “We can work something out. I… would really like to see you.”

“I know, I know. I owe you a kiss.”

More soft laughter. “Yeah, that too. Mostly I just want to hug you, though, if that’s all right.”

Felix gnaws on his lower lip. “Late breakfast tomorrow at Harold’s? Or is that too…”

“Too what?” Carver laughs. “I like it. Simple. Something we’ve done a million times before, yeah? No pressure.”

“I don’t know about that,” Felix demurs, but Carver’s words go a long way toward relaxing him. “I’ll text you when I wake up, how does that sound?”

“It sounds perfect. ’Night, Fee. Sleep well.”

“You too,” he whispers. After another long moment of tense, perfect silence, the line goes dead.

He’s shaking and hollow when he puts down the phone, as if a great sandstorm has scoured away his insides. He slumps back down on the bench and it feels perfectly natural to let his head fall to Dorian’s shoulder. “All right?” Dorian murmurs, his fingers dragging soothingly through his short hair.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I’m… happy. And really, really tired.”

“That sounds about right. Come on inside, it’s freezing and everyone’s gone home. There’s no one to hide from anymore.”

A little stiff with the cold—he’s been outside for at least an hour, he realizes with some shock—he follows Dorian back into the kitchen and lets himself be pushed onto one of the bar stools. Cullen is there, already getting a head start on the dishes and yawning into his rolled-up sleeve. He greets them with a nod and a lifted eyebrow in Dorian’s direction, though the effect is ruined with another jaw-cracking yawn.

“Oh, go to bed, grandpa,” Dorian tells him fondly, and gets a wet, smacking kiss on his cheek for his trouble. “Yuck. I thought we put the dog to bed.”

“We did.” Cullen rinses a plate and stacks it in the dish-drainer before giving up and going to dry his hands. “What’s been going on? Or is it none of my business?”

“It’s fine,” Felix says before Dorian can jump in with the usual best-friend excuses. “Carver… made his intentions known, earlier.”

Cullen’s brows rise in tandem as he turns to rest his backside against the counter. “I thought something seemed off with him. He whisked himself and Bethany away almost immediately after I proposed, looking like thunder. Didn’t even say goodbye, congrats, nothing.”

“I turned him down, initially,” Felix explains. “I… hadn’t told him about me.”

Cullen whistles through his teeth. “He took it badly.”

“Well, no. I didn’t say anything, not at the time. Then we spoke on the phone and he was… very good about it. We agreed to take things slowly.”

Cullen grins like a fool. “So you _are_ together. Congratulations, Felix. It only took you a year.”

“Yes, well, don’t go spreading it around,” Felix says, but he’s smiling into his scarf as Cullen grips his shoulder companionably. “It’s early days.” He muffles a yawn into his hand and wonders if he’ll be able to drive home like this.

“Sure you don’t want to stay the night?” Dorian asks, wiggling his eyebrows. “Help with disaster relief tomorrow?”

Felix considers it. He’s got a twenty-minute drive ahead of him back to a cold bed, and that’s if the traffic is good. And he’s still feeling a bit fragile from the evening’s events. Cullen must sense the nature of his hesitation because he adds, “Dorian’s been dying to show off the new guest suite, but you know. No pressure.”

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” he says. “Thanks.”

Dorian rubs his hands together. “Come on, then, I’ll show you where everything is and you can give me the verdict in the morning.”

The guest suite is at the end of the hall down from the master, looking south over the slope of the greenhouse roof and down the frosted hill to the black, slow-moving river and the city lights beyond. The main room is wide but low-ceilinged, the exposed beams polished to a rough, beeswax shine that echo the warm maple floorboards underfoot. The bed is a massive king-sized sleigh-framed beast piled high with antique quilts and pillows, a faux fur throw tossed artfully over the foot, and a remodeled hearth houses a gas fireplace that turns on with a flick of a button. Felix sinks onto the plush mattress and digs his sock toes into the bearskin rug with an appreciative sigh.

“This is lovely. I feel like a king.”

“Don’t sit down yet!” Dorian chivvies him up again with a hand to his elbow. “The washroom is just this way, milord.”

Felix flicks his ear in revenge and follows him to the low, whitewashed door that nudges open to reveal the loo. He leans against the doorframe and whistles low in admiration. “Jesus, Dorian, you’re a master.”

“Well, thank you,” Dorian preens, pleased. “I was almost afraid the tub was going to be a no-go, but one of Bull’s people was able to get it hooked up properly. Cullen wanted to use it in the greenhouse to plant _flowers_ in, of all things.”

The claw-foot tub is certainly the centerpiece. It takes up almost half the room, which is more of a walk-in closet, really, and the toilet and sink are barely wedged in beside it. Somehow, though, it works. The white enamel gleams invitingly, and the showerhead is a uniquely modern piece standing unsupported from the taps and curving into an elegant spout that promises a wonderful gush of hot, soaking water of the perfect pressure and temperature.

“I can’t wait to shower,” Felix says, and a jaw-cracking yawn nearly swallows the last few words. “I can’t wait to shower _tomorrow_.”

Dorian laughs and steers him back into the bedroom. “It’ll be well worth the wait. Breakfast is at whatever-the-fuck o’clock you please, Cullen will probably be up with the birds but I’m going to sleep in like a civilized human being, so don’t feel the need to rise and shine. There are spare pajamas in the chest,” he nudges it with his toe, a solid cedar piece underlining the foot of the bed, “unless you sleep in the nude these days?” He grins wickedly.

“Why don’t you ask Carver?” falls out of his mouth before he can stop it, and he groans at Dorian’s delighted cackle. “ _Don’t_ , god, please pretend I didn’t say that. We haven’t even properly snogged yet, let alone… no. Just no.”

“All right, I’ll leave you alone.” Dorian squeezes his shoulder in passing. “Sleep well, Fee. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs. When Dorian is gone, he strips out of his clothes and finds a flannel pyjama set and some fuzzy socks waiting for him in the dresser. His fingers itch for his phone, but he forces himself to change and use the loo before climbing into bed and thumbing his screen on.

_Happy New Year, Carv :)_

He knows he’s probably on the tube home, but that doesn’t keep him from putting the phone next to the pillows before burrowing beneath the blankets. He doesn’t have much battery power left but he’s not ready to turn it off yet. The door creaks open, but it’s only Mabs, tail wagging very slightly at the tip. He sighs and pats the mattress. “Oh, come on, then. Don’t tell your papas.”

With a lolling grin, she trots into the room and jumps up onto the foot of the bed where she turns a few times and flops down across the entire width of the bed. Felix grins and settles down, wriggling his toes against her warm bulk. She’ll be better than a space heater, as long as she doesn’t fret and pant during the night. He closes his eyes.  

There’s a little buzz beside his head and he jackknifes upright, nearly sending it flying off the mattress. _happy new year fee_. His stomach flips as he nestles back down into the covers, phone held a few inches from his nose to compose his reply.

_are you safe at home yet?_

_just got off the tube, I’m around the corner._

_let me know when you get there please x_

_sure thing. I’m really terrible at texting lingo, is x supposed to mean something?_

Felix chews on his lower lip and debates telling him. He could always just look it up, he supposes—he may as well confess. _it’s a kiss. sorry if that’s not ok?_

 _it’s more than ok xxx_ , comes the immediate reply, filling Felix with warm, flurrying butterflies all the way down to his toes.

 _maybe this is too much too soon, but you should know i’m glad we’re taking this slow. it feels like the kind of thing i’ll want to savor._ He chews on his lower lip and adds a little more, feeling self-conscious but determined to get it all out now. _i guess what i’m trying to say is that i’m happy and willing to wait for the real-life kisses, because they’ll be even better if i’m patient._

He can see the little dotted lines blipping away, and he holds his breath while he waits until his lungs starts to burn and he breathes in anyway. And then Carver’s text arrives and takes his breath away all over again. _it’s not too much, or too soon. they’re important things to discuss. and again, i agree. I want to savor this. savor you._ There’s a pause in which Felix stares stupidly and sort of blindly at his phone, and then a new message pops up unobtrusively below the first. _sorry if that was weird. I didn’t mean it in that way. at least, not entirely._ Pause. _maybe a little._

Felix’s skin prickles even under the covers. This conversation is rapidly taking a turn for the interesting, and not in a way he’s sure he’s up to coping with tonight. As if Carver read his mind, a final text comes in a few moments later.

_sorry. getting ahead of myself. you mean a lot to me, Fee, and I want to do this in the way that’s right for us. also, i’m home now. safe and sound. x_

There go his insides, melting into a puddle of useless goo. He grins foolishly at his phone as he replies, _you mean a lot to me, too. xxx_

_glad we’re on the same page. xxxx_

Alight with good humor and perhaps a little puppy love, Felix responds with _xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_ and nothing else.

_if you’re challenging me to a kissing duel, i assure you i have very strong thumbs and an even stronger desire to win._

_shall we call it a draw? x_

_for now. ….xx_

_don’t start._

_i’m yawning my head off. talk tomorrow?_

_i’ll give you a play-by-play of the cleaning nightmare that’s about to be foisted upon me._

_i look forward to it. x_

_goodnight, carv. x_

_’night fee. x_

Still smiling, Felix slides his phone off and puts it forcibly on the bedside table, else he’ll be up another hour rereading their entire conversation. In the dimness lit by the flickering firelight he says, “Be an adult and go to sleep.”

Mabs snorts as if doubting his resolve, but eventually, he does.

///

“FUCK!” Carver shouts at the ceiling. From the other room he hears an inquisitive _mew_ , but he’s too busy throwing himself on the bed and burying his face in the pillow to reassure Peaches of his health. “He said yes! He fucking said yes!”

His phone has landed on the duvet beside him face-up, with Felix’s last text still on the screen above his. _goodnight, carv. x_. Kiss. He grabs it and scrolls all the way back to the top to read through them again.

 _I’m HIV positive, Carv._ The words hit him again, souring his excitement slightly, and he rolls onto his back, letting his phone drop onto his chest with a sigh. _Fuck_. Everyone he’d said to Felix was true. He’s willing to stick it out. How could he not be, after everything? After nearly a year of being head over heels for this man? And yet he can’t help but feel afraid. He knows what that means, _my levels aren’t even noticeable anymore_ , and it gives him hope, but he also knows what _some days are better than others_ means.

“Why did he have to be sick,” he whispers, covering his face with his hands. _No. Stop._ He thinks back over the course of their friendship and can’t remember a single time Felix seemed like he was struggling. Apart from his asthma, he’s always seemed perfectly healthy. Carver takes a deep breath and reaches for his phone again.

“Hello?” Bethy says, voice small and a little scratchy.

“Hey. I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“Not really,” she says, which means _yes, you did_ , but he doesn’t call her out on it. “What’s going on? Everything all right?”

“I talked to Felix.” He hears the little intake of breath in his ear and smiles faintly. “We’ve decided to give it a go.”

“Carv! Oh my god,” she breathes. She’s probably trying to keep it down if Mum’s asleep in the next room, but the excitement in her voice is still palpable. “What happened? Tell me everything.”

Carver rattles off the events of the night: getting a cab to Felix’s place, texting him from the pavement while his hands shook and sweat rolled down his back even in the clammy winter chill. Felix calling him, and the long discussion that followed. “I get why you didn’t say anything,” he says afterward. “But can you—do you know any more? That you can tell me? Can you tell me whether he’s… okay?”

“He’s okay, Carv. I don’t know much more than you, honestly, but… we check up on each other sometimes, you know? And he’s good. He was lucky, catching it so early.”

“But he’ll be on medication for the rest of his life.”

“Only until they develop better treatment,” Bethany says neutrally. “Carv, this isn’t like Dad. Okay? It isn’t even like _me_. His medication isn’t suddenly going to stop working, the virus isn’t going to… I don’t know, metastasize without warning. You know this stuff. How many health clinics have you been a part of at the Club? You’ve probably given this same lecture ten times.”

“It was once. And never again, I hate standing in front of people and talking.” He sighs, a little bit shakily. “I’m sorry if I’m being horrible about this, I’m just… scared. I thought it would be easy once we got past the _I like you, you like me_ part of the program. Or easi _er_.”

Bethany sighs. “I think this is something you should talk to him about. He’s the one living with it, leave it to him to debunk all your worst-case scenarios. And trust him, Carver. I can’t tell you how _fucking_ annoying it is when people keep asking and prying and second-guessing when they don’t know what it’s like to actually _live_ with something like that. He’s a private person, but he cares about you. He’s going to want to answer your questions, even the stupid ones, even the ones you ask out of fear and not logic. So don’t freak out on him just because he’s the type to be insufferably patient with you.”

“I won’t,” Carver promises, feeling a little flickering glow in his breast at the words _he cares about you_. “I care about him too, Beth. So much. I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t. Carv, listen. You’re my brother. I know you. You’re a better person than you think you are—you’re kind, and gentle, and patient, and you _listen_. Trust me. You’ve got this.”

Carver takes a deep breath. “Thanks. I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m always right. Better half, remember?”

“Always.” His fingers tighten around his phone and he sighs. “I’m too excited to sleep but I’m also exhausted.”

“Try and sleep, then, if you can. You don’t want to show up for you date with bags under your eyes, do you?” she teases.

“Somehow I think Felix is going to be in the same boat. But yeah. I’ll, uh. Try and shower and drink some tea or something. Warm milk. Isn’t that supposed to help? Why is that supposed to help?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you. Give it a try, I guess? And Carver… I’m happy for you. Really.”

“Thanks, Bethy. Sleep well. I love you.”

“Love you.”

The phone clicks off and Carver closes his eyes. His head aches with all the thoughts swirling through it, and his body feels sticky from the late night trip on the tube. _Shower_ , he reminds himself. _Tea. Maybe some yoga. Then bed._ He glances at his phone again, where his text conversation with Felix is still open.

_goodnight, carv. x_

He covers his idiotic smile with his hands and gets up to put the kettle on.

///

Felix wakes up with a dry, sticky mouth and his feet sweaty and hot from being laid on by a dog all night. He lays there in a contented stupor for a few minutes before last night comes flooding back. Adrenaline surges through him at the memory, and he flops out of bed, stumbling to the loo to pee and splash water on his face. In the mirror, he looks tired and in need of a trim with the electric razor. But first, water. And caffeine, if he can get it.

Downstairs, his hosts are already hard at work picking up the detritus of last night’s party. He makes himself a cuppa with Mabs leaning against his calves and gets to work. He only makes it through half an hour or so before Dorian’s scolding chases him out of the kitchen and upstairs to shower and change.

Meddler that he is, Dorian has already laid out a few options on the bed—they’re roughly the same size, though Dorian prefers clothing with a tighter fit, and he browses through the offerings a few times, feeling like a paper doll. He finally settles on dark grey jeans and a navy jumper that match the charcoal scarf Bethy knit him for Hanukkah. When he goes downstairs, Dorian gives him an appraising once-over and a short nod, setting the broom in his hands to one side.

“Good?”

“Very good. Neat and simple and elegant, as always. I approve.” He makes him spin in a circle, nodding, and plucks a few stray dog hairs from the front of his jumper. “I have a heather green double-breasted wool that would go marvelously with the ensemble—”

“I have a coat of my own,” Felix says patiently.

“What, that ratty old leather thing? Is that the same one you picked up in that secondhand store in Oxford ten years ago?”

“Five years ago,” Felix reminds him. “And yes. It has sentimental value, all right?” More specifically, it has a little wooden griffon that now lives in the pocket beside Blackwall’s pin, the one Carver made him before he left for Greece. _For courage_. He’s going to need it.

Dorian calls him a cab and kisses his cheek as he departs. It’s a grey day, cold and clear, but by the time he arrives in the central part of the city it’s started to rain: a great sopping downpour that bounces off the puddles on the pavement and leaves perpetual craters behind. Felix climbs out of his cab with his umbrella already out, and the lighter thrum of the rain against its surface is a soothing transition from the hard metallic snap of it falling on the roof of the car. Harold’s is just across the street, as cheerful and innocent as ever. But this time there’s something different about it. Behind the façade of familiarity is the unknown, and in spite of the cold, his palms are sweating.

From within, movement. Felix’s hand goes white-knuckled around the handle of the umbrella as Carver appears in the window, shrugging off his dark wool coat and settling himself at the table with his drink. Felix can’t see what it is from this distance, but he already knows: double espresso with cinnamon and chilies and a thick helping of steamed milk. He can almost smell it under the cold cement and smoggy London wet infusing his nostrils. He smiles and lets himself look.

Beyond the pane of glass, Carver sits bowed over his mug almost as if he’s praying. He’s wearing the jumper Bethy made him for Hanukkah, a soft wine-red that brings out the tinge of pink in his cheeks. He looks… good. Calm. Calmer than Felix feels, but perhaps that’s a façade, too. Perhaps he’s just as nervous as Felix is. He’s not sure which one he prefers.

He takes a deep breath and coughs a little into his scarf as he crosses the road and steps inside to the tinkle of the bell over the door. Inside, Carver startles and stands up, hands fluttering in front of him as if he doesn’t know quite what to do with them.

“Oh my god, please, sit. It’s just me,” Felix says, still terrified but impossibly amused at Carver’s nervous antics.

“Sorry! Sorry.” He sits back down again, hard enough that the chair legs stutter across the floor and he has to grip the table edge for balance. On the table is a bouquet of flowers: some roses, but also baby’s breath and forget-me-nots and a whole slew of day lilies in every shape and size and color. “I um. I got you flowers.”

“So I see.” He smiles, accepting the bouquet when Carver hands it to him and bringing it to his nose. “It’s lovely, thank you.”

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” Carver asks miserably. “I’m sorry, I’m overthinking this. It… it almost feels like last night was just a dream.”

“Which part?” Felix asks, shrugging out of his coat and sitting down entirely on autopilot.

“All of it, I guess. But mostly the part where you said you were… interested. Even though I have the text messages to prove it.” He glances up, shy and smiling, and Felix wonders if he’s been reading and rereading over last night’s conversation as often as he has.

“That’s not what I expected you to say,” he confesses.

“What did you expect, then?”

He takes a deep breath, hand white-knuckled around the bouquet’s paper-wrapped stems. “For you to say that this was all a mistake.”

“Fee. That’s not happening. I promise.” Carver sits forward, eyes suddenly very direct and very, very blue. “This is—I don’t say any of this lightly. I don’t really do… casual.”

“Neither do I. Well, I used to, but not in a long time.” He wishes he’d stopped for a drink first, just so he’d have something to do with his hands besides crush these flowers to death. As if summoned by his thoughts, Cole sweeps by like a pale shadow and deposits a huge mug in front of him, wrapped in a cheerful yellow cozy with daisies on. There’s a tiny teaspoon sitting on the saucer—absurdly, it makes him smile.  

“I ordered for you,” Carver explains. “I hope that’s okay?”

“No, it’s fine. Completely.” He wraps his fingers around it gratefully and breathes in the scent of espresso and soy and a very slight pinch of vanilla. “Thank you.”

Carver shrugs, busying himself with arranging the bouquet on the windowsill beside their table, out of the way. “It’s a bit shit out, so I thought it would be nice for you to have something hot.”

 _I already do_ , he thinks slyly to himself, but he decides there are more important things weighing on his mind. “I don’t know if you had, er, plans, or anything in particular you wanted to discuss, but… I’d like to talk about me, if that’s okay. About the… what I told you last night. If I don’t get it out do the way now I’ll just be worrying about it the entire time and I’ll be no use to anyone.”

“Of course.” Carver glances around—the café is fairly empty, but there are a couple regulars and Cole, of course, perpetually behind the counter. “Did you want to go somewhere more private?”

“No, this is fine. If you’re comfortable.”

Carver makes a dismissive sound into his coffee. “It’s not my comfort level that matters here, Fee. But I’m fine. Whenever you’re ready.”

Like last night, it almost feels like an out-of-body experience. He hems and haws for a moment or two, not really sure where to start, but Carver only sips his coffee patiently and eventually he muddles through. “So, um. I don’t know how much you know—”

“Only what you told me. I talked to Bethy after and she said you had told her a while ago, but she didn’t say anything that I didn’t know already.”

“Okay. Well, I was diagnosed five years ago, right after graduating college. My girlfriend at the time tested positive and by then it was already too late. I’m not sure how long I was pos at that point, but the symptoms sort of accumulated over the next few months, even after I started treatment.” He realizes he’s started talking too quickly, words tripping over each other to escape, and he takes a long sip of his coffee to calm down. “That first year was the worst of it. But as of… I think two years ago, my viral load is undetectable, which means there’s basically no risk of transferring anything.” He huffs. “My doctor has told me I’m clear to have unprotected sex, actually. But I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“Not ready for not using protection, or not ready for sex?”

Felix toys with his spoon. “I… I’m not sure yet.” _Dear god, let me not ruin this._ “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

“Take your time.” Carver blushes and looks down. “I mean,  I assume we’ll have sex eventually, but I’m not in a rush. And if you’d rather not, ever, that’s okay too.”

“That’s very selfless of you,” Felix says dryly, “but have you _seen_ yourself without a shirt on? I would very much like to have sex with you someday, just… you know. It’s been a while for me. I’ve tried a few times in the past few years but it’s been difficult to get things off the ground.” And now he’s prickling too much with embarrassment to keeping going. “God, did I really just say that?”

“Which part?” Carver laughs.

“Guess, you prick.”

“The no shirt part? Yeah, I occasionally look in a mirror.” Carver rubs his beard consideringly, smiling. “Thank you for, um, the compliment. If that’s what that was. The sentiment is mutual.”

Felix bites his lip and busies himself with setting his spoon down at a very precise angle. “Good. Did you, um… have any questions? I can answer whatever you’d like to know. Or we can talk about something else.”

Carver rubs his beard a little more briskly, a habit Felix has noticed him indulging in more and more frequently. It’s more than a little endearing. “Can I ask what it’s… like? I mean, you told me the cold facts, but when you first found out it must have been terrifying.”

“It was.” Felix swallows hard against the memory. “I didn’t really know anything about it except whatever stupid shit they tell you on the telly and in history class. I thought it was a death sentence. Even after the doctors gave me the ‘good outlook’ talk and showered me with educational pamphlets, I didn’t quite believe it. All I knew was that there was something in me, something sick, and it was going to kill me. If not today, tomorrow. Next year. I… didn’t handle it very well. If I hadn’t had Dorian and my dad, I don’t know if I would have been able to even take my medication—and it was a lot, at first. Meds for the virus, meds for depression, meds to combat the side-effects of _those_ meds.” He swallows, lips stretching like cold rubber into a semblance of a smile. “Like I said. It was a bad year.”

Carver’s hands twitch around his mug, like he wants to do something with them—reach out, perhaps, or just fiddle with the silverware—and he clears his throat. “You said there are good days and bad days.”

“Mostly good days. But winter is difficult. I have bad circulation because of the meds I was on that first year, and my asthma makes it hard to do the things I want to do when it’s cold out. But those are mild concerns, honestly. I haven’t had so much as a sniffle in over three years. No cold sores, no acne.” He smiles faintly. “Some eczema, but I can live with that. The depression… comes and goes. I’m not on meds for that anymore because it’s so infrequent, but when it hits, it hits hard. I get mean. I have no filter, and I say things I don’t mean to say, which can be difficult for other people to deal with…”

“Hey. Fee, listen.” Carver finally gives in, reaching across the table to cover Felix’s hands with his own. “This isn’t a confessional. You don’t have to give me a laundry list of all your perceived faults.”

Felix sucks his lower lip into his mouth anxiously. “I just wanted you to be prepared.”

“For what? I’ve been your friend for ages now, I’ve seen some of the things you’re talking about. It’s not a dirty secret to struggle with depression, or any of the rest of it.” He smiles, a little self-deprecating. “I’m a mess too, sometimes. Remember how I totaled my car last year?”

“Kind of hard not to. You’ve still got a scar, here.” He lets go of Carver’s hand and reaches up, touching a light fingertip to the arch of Carver’s brow. A little white dimple shows where the window glass broke against his face. Carver’s eyes close and Felix indulges himself, trailing his finger down the side of his face to stroke his cheekbone before drawing away. Carver sighs and opens his eyes, looking a little dazed.

“Uh. Yeah, I guess I do. I forgot about that.” His hand is still on the table, knuckles down and fingers curled loosely underneath. Moving carefully in case he’s rejected, Felix brushes his hand across the back of Carver’s, and rests there. Carver hardly seems like he’s breathing. “Have you got a new one, yet?”

“A new…?”

“Car,” Felix prompts, impossibly delighted that he’s reduced Carver to such primitive brain function with just a touch of a hand.

“No. There’s no point, really. I can take the tube anywhere I need to go in the city, and if it’s farther out I can borrow Mum’s car. When Bethy moves out on her own I’ll buy her a replacement.”

“She’s moving out?” Felix asks, startled.

“Not right away. But I could see it happening in another year or two, if there are no more complications. Not that there have been, but, y’know. Just in case. But she finishes school in the spring, and she’s had a few offers of apprenticeship from studios around the country, so she’d need a more reliable way to get around. For my own peace of mind.”

“You’re very protective of her, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Some would probably say too much.” He rubs his eyebrow self-consciously and his fingers flex under Felix’s hand. Felix shifts, letting his hand rest on the table, thumb splayed across the back of Carver’s knuckles and enjoying the flush that rises prettily to his cheeks. _Holding hands: check. Kissing? To be determined._ “She yells at me when it’s too much and I back off. We have a system. Speaking of which. Er, if it ever feels like I’m… smothering you… tell me. I’ll try not to, but I. I have a thing.” He exhales mild laughter at the unconscious mimic of Felix’s words the night before. “A thing that you’ve witnessed before, actually. When I lit into that bloke at the restaurant?”

“Yeah, I remember. It was a bit scary,” Felix says honestly, still rubbing the back of Carver’s hand in little spirals. Carver pulls his hand back just enough to slot their fingers together, and their hands rest that way on the table, in full view of everyone walking by.

“That’s not really—I don’t do that. Not anymore. I meant more: I feel like I have to protect the people I love from everything that might hurt them, even if it means intruding on their privacy. And that’s just not feasible. I’ve been working on it,” he adds, lifting his chin proudly. “Beth says I’ve improved a lot.”

“That’s good,” Felix grins. “I’m glad to hear it. But if I have permission to yell at you…”

“Yes. You absolutely do.”

“Fair enough.” His stomach rumbles suddenly, interrupting the flow of his thoughts—now a gentle, eddying stream rather than a tumultuous riptide. “Oh. We were going to get breakfast, weren’t we?”

Carver checks his watch. “More like lunch by now, I think. Did you want to stay here, or go somewhere else?”

“Here is fine. I like their soup.” He squeezes Carver’s hand and lets it go, pushing upright from the table. “This one’s on me, since you got the coffee.”

Carver grumbles a bit but acquiesces, and they go the counter to order. Without the table between them, putting some artificial distance between their bodies, Felix feels his proximity acutely. The brush of their arms, the heat of his nearness, are distracting. He stammers twice before managing to enunciate his order, and Carver’s rumbling voice when he adds his own is thick with laughter.

The next hour is everything he could have hoped for. The conversation flows smoothly, just as it always has; the only difference is that now, when their feet brush under the table they don’t pull away, and when their food is gone and they’re just sitting and talking over the dregs of their coffee, their hands tangle on the table, fingers intertwined and intimate.

When they’ve exhausted all conversation and Felix catches himself yawning for the fourth time in the past few minutes, they make their meandering way outside. It’s not raining anymore, but [they linger under the arch of the cobblestone alley](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/139298065500/heathwind-blog-carver-hawke-and-felix) next door anyway, his bouquet held securely in one hand. His other is still in Carver’s, fingers laced together just so. His breath clouds in the air as he says, shyly, “Thank you for breakfast. Um. Can I, since I ruined it the last time…?”

Carver’s eyes are so wide and blue, Felix swears he could fall headfirst into them and never come out. “I—yeah, of course. You don’t even need to ask.”

Carver’s arms are already waiting for him, his head tilted politely to one side. Felix seeks the stubbled plane of his cheek and kisses it warmly, letting his lips soften and cling before he breaks away, heart pounding. Carver is smiling down at him, brilliant, looking delighted just to have Felix in his arms. Felix buries his nose in his collar, and even though it’s cold, Carver doesn’t complain—just presses a kiss to his temple and lingers there, a bastion against the bitter wind slicing along the street. “Thank you for trusting me with this,” he whispers.

Felix tightens his arms around his solid waist. “Thank you for being patient.”

Carver sighs, squeezes him gently. Huffs a soft laugh. “I don’t want to let go.”

“I don’t want you to let go either,” Felix admits. Carver smells so familiar but with a tinge of newness, like an old memory suddenly reconjured through the lens of hindsight. The back of his throat aches, and not the way it usually does this time of year. Carver loosens his grip as if to release him, but Felix just clings tighter, the paper of the bouquet crinkling where it’s pressed to Carver’s back. “Don’t let go,” he begs, a shameful whisper. “Not yet.”

Carver rumbles something unintelligible and hauls him even closer, breath warm against his ear and their feet tangled together on the wet pavement. The strength of him is overwhelming, steady as a rock and warm as the Mediterranean sun, and Felix struggles with himself for a moment before finally allowing a few tears to slip free. He can’t believe this is real—that this was allowed to happen to him. He doesn’t think he’s obvious about it, but he must make some sound or betray himself some other way, because Carver cups his face in one blunt hand and lifts it up to look at him. 

“Oh, darling, what is it?” he whispers, brow crumpled with worry, and that just makes it worse. 

“I’ve been waiting—so long,” Felix stammers, trying to tamp down on the emotions boiling under his skin. “For this, for something like this. I didn’t truly think I would ever find someone, someone like you… It’s stupid, I’m sorry, I just…”

“Shh, no, it’s not stupid. God, Fee. You thanked me for being patient, but I would have waited a hundred years and more if it meant I would find you at the end of it.” He strokes the tears from Felix’s face with his thumb, head bowed toward him, and Felix leans up just enough to brush their noses together. His vision is a little blurred, but he can see the smile on Carver’s lips and the brown freckles in his brilliant blue eyes. “Hello,” he says quietly, almost bashfully.

Felix’s heart squeezes in his chest. “Hello.”

Carver’s hand is still on his jaw, not guiding or pressing, just holding. Cradling. Felix turns his face into the warm, rough palm, and when he turns back, he tips his lips up and right into Carver’s welcoming mouth.

It’s gentle, a little damp still from the tears that had slipped down his face a minute ago, and though their mouths aren’t open and their tongues aren’t searching, yet, the kiss tastes like coffee and butter pastries. They part, briefly—there’s a tiny sound accompanying it, a little slip of skin against skin, and Felix is suddenly clutching Carver’s coat lapels to haul him in for another go. Carver is smiling this time, but Felix doesn’t care. He smiles back, fighting the curve of his own lips to kiss him with increasing urgency, reveling in the solidity of Carver’s body and the supple, hot press of his mouth.

“Felix,” Carver breathes, and this time they part with the wet smack of saliva and the taste of coffee fresh in their mouths. “Oh, god, I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

“Me too,” Felix confesses. “I don’t remember _how_ long, at this point.”

“Probably from the first day you came into the ’shop, if I’m honest.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” He lifts up on his toes and kisses him one more time. The scrape of his beard is a startling contrast to the softness of his lips. It’s addicting. “When can I see you again?”

“Soon. Tomorrow. Every day?” Carver asks, laughing a little. “Is that too much?”

“No. Never. Well, maybe in a few years.” He steps back reluctantly, still clinging to his hand; the bouquet is beginning to droop a bit in the cold, reminding him that all of his stuff, and his car, is still at Dorian’s. He sighs. “I have some errands to run, but… text me?”

“Of course.” He licks his lips and leans in, one more kiss to his cheek, warm and raspy. “See you around, sweetheart.”

 _Sweetheart_. Felix could swear his own heart fizzles up like a child’s science experiment, all sweet-sour bubbles in the back of his nose. He watches Carver’s progress down the street for a little while before turning the other way and heading toward the main road to catch a cab.

It’s only later, climbing out of the car into a slight drizzle with the flowers cradled against his side, that he remembers he left his umbrella at the café. He decides he doesn’t care in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked up flower meanings and "ambrosia" is supposed to mean "your love is returned," but when I googled ambrosia pictures of day lilies showed up, so.... that's my cobbled-together attempt at research I guess. Roses obviously symbolize love, baby's breath represents everlasting love, pureness, and innocence, and forget-me-nots have a lot of interesting symbolism, including: true and undying love; a connection that lasts through time; fidelity and loyalty in a relationship, despite separation or other challenges; and growing affection between two people.
> 
> This chapter contains art! Thanks to heathwind who did that lovely commission for me :)
> 
> A disclaimer: I am not HIV positive myself. Everything Felix says about himself is pulled from medical websites or personal testimonies about living with HIV.


	19. 19.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a First Date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here, have a massive pile of fluff before the hard shit starts :D No warnings for this chapter except food consumption. Thanks to professionallilbrocarverhawke for the Victoria and Albert Museum idea ;)

_Thwap_. 

“Hawke! Pay attention!” Cassandra snaps, her voice ringing out over the court. Carver shakes his head to dispel the throb of Rue’s foil slapping the side of it, narrowly missing his ear. 

“Sorry,” he says to her, resisting the urge to run away the sting. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“What is with you today?” she asks as they take up their ready stances again. “You’re not usually this slow on the draw.”

“Busy holidays,” he says in a clipped voice, and springs into action as soon as Cass blows the whistle. He tries to focus. His body knows what to do, but that’s not an excuse to let his brain slide. 

The truth is that he just saw Felix walk past the gym, silhouetted briefly against the window as he chatted with Fenris, and Carver’s gaze had lingered a little too long—just long enough for Rue to get in a hit that he should have easily been able to block. 

“Busy, huh?” Rue asks, almost a taunt. She doesn’t know the whole story—few people do, as Carver isn’t the type of gossip about other people’s love lives let alone his own—but he knows _some_ kind of whisper has been getting around about his new man. Whether she knows who it is or not remains to be seen. 

“Yeah. Busy. It’s a thing that happens around this time of year to some people.”

“Thought you didn’t celebrate Christmas?”

“I don’t.” _Grunt_. He dodges a particularly skillful riposte and skips forward again to get under her guard. She evades him, barely. “Hanukkah and the New Year. More than enough for me, thanks.” 

Their next revolution puts his back to the rear wall of the gym, just a few precarious paces away, and he knows that if he lets her get close enough he’ll be toast. Then, over her shoulder, he sees Felix sitting cross legged on the bench near the doors, still dressed in his workout clothes. Watching Carver. He swallows and yanks his eyes back to the match. _Don’t get distracted_. If he loses, he’s out of the running for the special demo trip to Oxford, and Bethany—who he promised could go along—will be terribly disappointed. And he can’t lose in front of Felix. He refuses to.

“Holy shit, Hawke,” Rue says, dancing lightly backward on the balls of her feet as Carver goes on the offensive. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing, yet,” Carver can’t resist saying, “But I have  high hopes.”

 _Swish, flick_. Done. Chest heaving, Carver stands with his feet raced wide and the tip of his foil just touching the center of Rue’s chest. She growls and tears off her helmet. “Damn you, Carver. I was _this close_.”

“Sorry, Rue. I promised my sister a trip to the country.” He peels his own faceguard off, grinning, and wipes the sweat from his brow. It does not escape his notice that Felix is still watching, knees to his chin on the other side of the gym. “Well fought.”

“Well fought,” she echoes grudgingly.

They salute each other and return to where Cass and Cullen are standing, heads bent close together. Barris and Pax are already stripping out of their gear—they stayed to watch, but neither has any interest in pursuing the Oxford trip. Barris slings his hand out for Carver to grip as they pass. “Nice work.”

“Thanks.” He nudges his shoulder up against Rue’s . “Hey. Don’t look so glum, you nearly had me.”

“Yeah, _nearly_.” Still, she straightens up and meets Cassandra’s eyes head-on when they get close. “So? What’s the verdict?”

“There is no verdict,” Cassandra says crisply. “Carver won this bout, but you are both well-matched, in sabre and in foil. We have decided to petition Alistair to bring two team members instead of one.”

“What? Really?” Rue shouts, rocketing up on her toes and punching the air with a righteous fist. “Yes!”

“That’s fantastic,” Carver says mildly. He’s a little disappointed that his spot isn’t necessarily secured, but at least he impressed Felix. He hopes.

Cool-down is brief, but it seems to last forever. He tries not to look over every two seconds to see if Felix is still there, and he manages about half the time. Halfway through, Rue coughs into his arm and rolls her eyes at him, and he sighs. There’s that cat out of the bag. At least Rue is discreet. She’ll tease him about it until the end of time, but at she can be counted on not to blab about it to the entire Club.

Still, he purposefully hangs behind, letting her trail ahead out of the gym while Cullen and Cassandra chat between themselves in the back. He takes extra care to wipe the sweat from his face and scrub his wet hair to tame it a little before walking over. Felix stands at his approach, legs unfolding from their pretzel shape. He’s a little pink in the fact, though that might just be from his own exercise—or from embarrassment. Carver swallows. _It’s just Felix. No different from the last time you saw him at the Club._

“Hi,” Felix says when he’s close enough. He’s holding his bag in front of him, so Carver keeps a healthy distance, not sure how much PDA is welcome. He hasn’t seen Felix since their late breakfast date two days before, when everything spilled out in a mad jumble of emotion and relief,and already it feels like a lifetime.

“Hello. I hope you weren’t waiting long.” As if he hadn’t realized it the very second Felix stepped into the gym.

“It’s all right. I enjoyed it.” Felix grins and looks at the floor, teeth sinking into his lower lip. “You’re very skilled.”

He can’t help but puff up a little bit. “Thanks. Um, did you need to stop off home first, or are you good to leave from here?”

“I’ll be good to leave after a shower,” Felix laughs. His eyes slide down Carver’s sweat-soaked vest and back up again like a yo-yo, and he plucks nervously at the hem.

“Same for me. I’m kind of gross right now.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Felix says demurely. “But the maître’ d might protest.” He hefts his bag over his shoulder. “Shall we?”

Carver trails him to the locker room, wallowing in the realization that they’re going to be naked in the same room together very shortly. _Mind out of the gutter, Hawke_ , he thinks, but his eyes are following the flex of Felix’s arse in his joggers, which kind of defeats the purpose of a pep talk. “How was class?” he asks to keep his mind busy with other pursuits.

“Good!” The door swishes shut behind them, and they are alone—Barris and Pax must have skedaddled, or skipped a shower altogether. “I put my foot behind my head today, that was a new trick.”

Carver pictures Felix putting his foot behind _Carver’s_ head, and his mind goes blank for a minute. “Um. Is that an important part of self-defense?”

“Not particularly. But it’s good to be flexible. We do a lot of yoga—it’s part of why I love the private class, we don’t really have to stick to a strict schedule.” Felix bends forward a little and tugs his shirt over his head, and his back is smooth and flecked with freckles that are just barely visible against the honeyed tone of his skin. Across his shoulders rears his griffon, pale grey and dark midnight blue fanning out its wings. Muscle and bone move beneath the skin as he tugs his arms free of his sleeves, and Carver’s eyes fall to his sacrum, two little divots sharply defined right above the waistband of his joggers.

Felix turns around, and Carver does too, fumbling in a loud rush for his locker. His deodorant falls out of his bag and skitters across the ground, but before he can chase after it, Felix has snatched it up and is passing it over, biting back a smile. “Here.”

“Thanks. Nice reflexes. I’m, um…” he rubs the back of his neck, “a bit clumsy today, I guess.”

“Didn’t look like it out on the court.” He’s standing very close, still holding his shirt in one hand, his tattoos curling like living vines down his arms and across his chest. Carver’s finding it hard to look away. “Or are you just quicker with a sword in your hand?”

“It depends on the sword,” Carver blurts before realizing how it sounds. “I mean—I’m better at sabre than anything else, but…” His voice dies in his throat as Felix steps into his space. Their mouths are suddenly a hairsbreadth apart. “Uh.”

“You’re sweet,” Felix whispers. “But I’ve been very patient. Can I have a kiss now, please?”

He still can’t believe he’s allowed to do that. With a delicate touch, mindful of the sweat drying tackily to his skin, he tips his chin forward just enough for their lips to meet, and nothing else. Felix kisses back softly, earnestly, one hand finding its way to Carver’s waist. He pulls back reflexively, heart hammering in his throat. “I’m—you shouldn’t, I’m all sweaty, and I smell something terrible—”

“It’s fine.” His nostrils flare just the slightest bit. “I like it.”

 _Jesus_. Permission granted, Carver kisses him again with more intent. He puts his hands on his hips, and his skin is so smooth, still a little bit damp in the hollow of his spine, that Carver can’t resist stroking his back with careful fingers. Felix makes a little noise of approval and opens his mouth. Their tongues flirt and then slide together, so tender and silky-soft against the rough scrape of their beards, and Carver exhales harshly through his nose. His fingers dig a little harder into Felix’s skin and the answering hum echoes around the room, accompanied by the shuffle of Carver’s feet against the floor as he shifts his weight for a better grip.

“Mmm.” The sound settles in Felix’s throat when they finally part, his lips cherry-red. “That was…” His eyes fall to Carver’s mouth. He inhales and leans in again.

Behind them, the heavy locker room door sweeps open and falls shut again with a velvet-soft _thud_. Carver yanks back so quickly he nearly falls over a bench, just in time for Fenris to come around the corner, rubbing his face with a hand towel. He stops short, and Carver blushes all the way to the roots of his hair—no matter how much space is between them, it’s obvious what was going on. If their swollen mouths and red faces aren’t enough of a giveaway, he knows he’s getting a little thick in his joggers, blood running even hotter with the taste of Felix still in his mouth.

“Fucking déjà vu,” Fenris mutters nonsensically. He turns around and walks out again without another word, and Carver looks at Felix helplessly.

“Uh…”

Felix snorts with laughter and covers his mouth. “Sorry, I just—the look on his face!”

“I’m not going to apologize,” Carver huffs, silently grateful for the breather. “I’ve walked in on him and Anders sucking face often enough, it’s high time there was a little payback. But… I really should shower, or we won’t have enough time to browse the museum at our leisure before dinner.”

“I’ll join you. I mean—not like that,” Felix stammers. He sighs and turns to gather his shower things. “I give up. I’m just going to… go over here, until the blushing stops.”

“I like it when you blush,” Carver says before his brain can catch up with his mouth. “I mean, ah—it would be sort of hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it, since I’m pretty sure my face hasn’t been a normal color since you walked into the gym.”

“Ah, so you _did_ notice, mister _have you been waiting long?_ ” Felix says slyly, and Carver groans. “No, it’s fine, I won’t tease you. Go on, let’s race. First person out of the shower gets… um… more kisses?”

“Sounds like it’s a win-win,” Carver snarks, but he takes the stall across the room from Felix and turns the water to cold. His mind is too scrambled to handle hot water, especially with the knowledge that Felix is just over there, naked, water running over his skin as he…

Nope. Done. Carver stands face-first under the needle-like spray until his lips are numb and his cheeks are pink with cold instead of embarrassment, and when he dries off and steps into fresh pants and a nice pair of charcoal trousers, he doesn’t have any trouble zipping up. Next comes a nice shirt that he found buried in the back of his closet and a navy knit blazer Bethany made him buy a while back. At the time he had been skeptical, but now he’s glad he has something he can wear out with Felix that doesn’t make him look like a knob. Fee is always effortlessly stylish, or so it seems to him. Dating him is going to be hard on his wardrobe, he can already tell.

 _But worth it_ , he thinks, when Felix comes around the corner as he’s packing up his gym things. He’s dressed in a blue-black shirt and black trousers, a scarf already draped around his neck. He leans up to peck Carver’s cheek, quick and easy like they’ve always done it, and fetches his own things from his locker. He decides not to remind him of their race—he has a feeling he’ll be getting plenty reward later.

“Ready to go?” Felix asks, slipping into his coat in a way that draws Carver’s eyes implacably to his waist. It’s not the leather bomber, unfortunately, but something a little nice for the evening they have planned, a fawn double-breasted wool that he favors during the winter. Carver tries not to think about how much it cost as he puts on his own coat and pats himself down to make sure his keys and mobile are all in the right places.

“Ready.”

He doesn’t know why, but he’s not nervous at all anymore. He thought he would be, considering it’s their first “real” date—an afternoon at the Victoria and Albert museum followed by dinner at some swanky place Felix suggested—but after the initial shyness in the gym he’s feeling more at ease. They walk close, arms brushing, as they leave the Club and make their way to the cab he called a little while ago, and Felix opens the passenger side door for him with a little smirk, as if to say _look at what a gentleman I am._ Carver wants to snog it off his face, but settles instead for a snort and a poorly-hidden smile as he climbs in.

The museum isn’t precisely to his taste—he prefers modern art and sculpture to fussy historical garb and big-nosed paintings—but he floats along contentedly at Felix’s side, happy to play the doting boyfriend. And he doesn’t feel out of place, either, which is a relatively new experience for him. With Felix at his side, chic and intelligent in his slim-cut slacks and round tortoiseshell glasses, he feels like he belongs in a nice art gallery, examining every placard as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

Somewhere between the Baroque room and the upholstery collection he gives up trying to admire the displays and admires Felix instead. Lost in his own little world of high culture, Felix doesn’t seem to notice, but that suits him just fine. He’s still not entirely used to being allowed to look.

Towards the end of their little self-guided tour, he can’t quite stifle a yawn behind his wrist. Felix turns away from the Botticelli he’s admiring and slips his hand into Carver’s. “Are you ready to head out?”

Carver checks his watch. “It’s a little early for our reservation, yet.”

“I know. But I could use some fresh air.” He lets their joined hands swing freely between them, sending Carver’s castoff coat slapping against his thigh. “And so could you, I think.”

Guiltily, Carver looks past his shoulder and at the painting with a faint sense of determination. “I _am_ enjoying myself, I promise. It’s just… I’d prefer the Tate Modern, I guess. It’s more my speed.”

Felix grins. “I’ll put it on the list, then,” he says, and pulls him away from the (admittedly quite beautiful) Botticelli and back toward the entrance.

“What list? There’s a list?”

“Of course. A list of all the potential date ideas I’ve come up with in the last, oh… forty-eight hours.” He’s blushing a bit under his spectacles as he confesses, “I like to be organized.”

“Can I see the list?” Carver asks. “I might have a few ideas of my own.”

“All right. Over dinner?”

“Over dinner.”

Their hands weave together and squeeze, tightly, and Carver feels full enough to burst. It doesn’t matter that he spent more time looking at Felix than at eighteenth century chairs, or that they’re going to a fancy dinner at a place where Carver will likely be hard pressed to remember which fork to use first. He’s with this man, who he adores, allowed to touch and kiss and hold him—speaking of which. They step out into the sunshine and Carver sidles them along to the edge of the steps, out of the way of the negligible flow of traffic.

“All right?” Felix asks, with a curious smile on his face. He’s standing on the step above Carver, making him a few inches taller, and the perfect height for Carver to nuzzle up under his chin affectionately.

“I just wanted to—something. I don’t know.” He puts his hands gingerly on Felix’s waist, under the open slope of his coat plackets, and squeezes gently.

“Well.” Felix puts one hand on his shoulder and a finger underneath his chin. “Here’s _something_.”

He kisses him, right there in the street. There’s a mother walking by with a stroller full of toddlers, and an elderly couple mounting the steps to the museum, and he kisses him. Carver opens his mouth far too readily and their tongues slide together, easy and inquisitive. The finger beneath his chin slides south and become a hand against his nape, pressing him closer.

The kiss breaks before he’s ready, but it _is_ late afternoon on a weekend, and they aren’t exactly in private. He tips up to kiss Felix’s cheek in defiance and gets a smile in return. “I have an idea,” Felix says, fingers still curling a bit into his collar.

“What’s that?”

His eyes are sparkling with excitement. “Let’s cancel the reservation.”

“What? But you were so excited about it, you said they had a, a something, a wait list! And that we were lucky to get in at all.”

“I was excited, but… I changed my mind.” He cups Carver’s face in both hands, thumbs petting the edges of his beard. “All I want is to spend time with you. It doesn’t have to be anywhere fancy just because it’s our first ‘real’ date. And after dragging you through that museum I don’t want to subject you it.”

“I enjoyed myself,” Carver protests.

“Because you were looking at me more than at the art,” Felix says with a smirk.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he huffs, tugging him a little closer by the waist. “You were the most beautiful work of art in there.”

Felix bites his lip, face softening, and then he giggles, flinging both arms around Carver’s neck and smothering his head with kisses. “You are so sweet. My god, I think I’m getting a toothache.”

“Sorry,” Carver says, his voice muffled by the mouthful of wool coat currently pressed into his face. “So, um.” He wraps his arms around Felix’s waist and lifts him up onto his toes to get a full breath of air. “Where did you want to go instead? Because I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody starving.”

“Anywhere you like. Surprise me. I could devour a greasy fish and chips right now and be perfectly happy. Sit down restaurant, hole in the wall, whatever. You pick.”

Carver gnaws on his lower lip. “How do you feel about Italian?”

///

Felix has a bit of a soft spot for good Italian. His father is, in general, not much of a cook, but he spent a year studying in Italy before Felix was born, and for as long as he can remember Gereon’s pasta with heirloom tomato sauce has been the highlight of his childhood weeknight dinners. So when Carver hails a cab and they stop off at a tiny restaurant in Camden with dim lighting and a black-and-white tile floor that has seen better days, he isn’t even thinking of their reservation at Montsimmard—he’s thinking of the potent smell of roasting garlic permeating the place, of the sound of laughter and sharp, bright Italian being traded in the kitchen behind the swinging doors. His mouth waters and he follows Carver to a table without waiting for a host or hostess to seat them.

“It’s no five-star restaurant,” Carver says when they sit, flicking a few bread crumbs off the table self-consciously. “But it’s the best Italian in the city.”

“How did you hear of it?”

“My sister’s boss, Varric Tethras—he’s a Detective Inspector with the Met now, and writes trashy crime novels to keep himself sane, but before that he ran this place. It’s still in the family, as far as I know. Hullo, Orana.”

Felix turns to see a pretty blonde woman with a striking aquiline nose and a harried expression standing beside their table. She tucks her notepad away in her apron and leans down to kiss Carver’s cheek. “ _Falchino_ , how are you? It’s been a year and a day since I’ve seen you, at least.”

“I’m doing well. How’s Beans?”

“ _Bettina_ is doing just fine, thank you. She is this high and seems to have an endless collection of Legos.” She pats her own hip in demonstration. “And who is this lovely gentleman you are bringing to see me?” Her dark eyes turn on Felix, and he finds himself straightening up and folding his hands politely without quite meaning to.

“This is Felix,” Carver says, almost hesitantly, as if he’s not sure how to introduce him. “Please don’t scare him off, Orana, I haven’t got him for keeps yet.”

Felix feels his mouth drop open in surprise, but before he can think of what to say Orana is reaching out to pinch Carver’s cheek and laughing. “Then you have come to the right place, _falchino_. No man can resist the lure of Tethras Italian. I will bring that wine you like, yes? And give your young man some time to decide what he would like. I already know _your_ order.”

She whisks off again, hollering something in Italian to the man behind the bar. Carver scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sorry about that, she’s kind of…  intense.”

“I like her,” Felix assures him. “Is she Varric’s… wife?”

“Cousin. She kind of adopted us when we moved to London—well, Bethy and I. Varric was the only one who could get through to Mare. Still is, I think.” He shrugs. “But yeah. Beans—Bettina—is her daughter. I think she’s… about three, now. I haven’t seen her in a while. Hang on, I think I have a picture.”

Felix waits patiently while he digs for his phone and scrolls through it, elbows folded on the table. When he slides it across for him to see, he can’t help but coo a little—the picture is a bit dated, featuring a clean-shaven version of Carver he hasn’t seen for a while, and he’s got a little girl propped against his shoulder with huge dark eyes and a blonde tuft of wispy cornsilk hair tickling under his chin. “Oh my god, she’s adorable.”

“Isn’t she? Orana and her partner Velanna have two kids now, I think, but I haven’t met the other. A boy, I think, I can’t remember his name. Don’t tell Varric,” he adds, laughing, “he dotes on them, spoils them rotten.”

“I don’t think I’ve met Varric,” Felix ventures hesitantly.

“Blond. Short. Built like a tank but he talks like he should be on stage, preferably doing Shakespeare. He was at the New Year’s Eve party at Dorian’s—he kind of knows everyone,  or knows _of_ them, even if they don’t know _him_. Anyway, Mare sees more of him than I do, working in his unit and all.”

“Is that where _falchino_ comes from? Varric and his family?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I think it means ‘little hawk’ or something. You’d think they’d call Bethy _falchina_ , but now, she gets to be called ‘Sunshine.’”

Felix laughs. “I’m sorry darling, but I don’t think _sunshine_ quite fits you.”

“I know, I know. I’m more like rainclouds in the middle of summer.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Felix demurs. “Maybe blue skies, with eyes like those.”

Carver, taken aback, blushes and blusters for a moment until Felix laughs him quiet and changes the subject. The wine comes soon after, a mellow, oaky red that Felix is pleasantly surprised by. Even so, Carver is quick to dismiss his own taste. “We can get something else if you like. I don’t know where your wine preferences lie but I’m sure they’re more refined than mine.”

“It’s lovely,” Felix says firmly, and rolls a small sip around his tongue before swallowing. “I’m not nearly as much of a wino as Dorian is—most things agree with my palate.”

“I know a little about wine thanks to Fenris, but Dorian would probably laugh me out of a tasting,” Carver says, swirling his glass a bit. It looks practiced, which Felix wasn’t really expecting, but he’s finding that he has plenty still to learn about Carver Hawke. It’s a nice thought.

“So, what do you recommend? What’s your _usual_?”

“Carne pizzaiola,” he says with a shrug of his generous shoulders. “Simple. Filling. Their seafood dishes are excellent too, and Bethy always gets that one, the one with the veal… ummmmm.” He grabs a menu and thumbs through it, an adorable little furrow between his brows. “Ossobuco? Am I saying that right?”

“Sounds right to me, but I don’t speak Italian.” He snags the menu out of Carver’s hands and peruses it. “Mmm. Yes, that sounds delicious.” He can see Orana approaching out of the corner of his eye, and takes the moment or two before she arrives to slide his foot across the floor and between Carver’s shoes. They’re both long-legged, Carver slightly more so, and though the table size is generous it’s easy to tap their feet together, Felix’s toes to Carver’s instep. Carver starts a little but doesn’t have time to react as Orana props her hip against the table and pulls out her notepad like an afterthought. 

“Any ideas, boys?”

“Ossobuco for me,” Felix says cheerfully, sliding his menu across to her. “Medium.”

“The usual,” Carver murmurs when she turns to him. He’s staring very hard at his wineglass. Felix, burning with mischief, slips his shoe off and drags his toes along the top of Carver’s foot. The lighting is dim and intimate in the restaurant, but he can still make out a blush rising in his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It’s perfectly endearing. Carver clears his throat and reaches for his wineglass, taking a large swallow as Orana whisks away again. 

“All right?” Felix asks innocently, and gets a stern look over the rim of his glass.

“Fine.” 

Worried he’s offended somehow, Felix withdraws his foot and prepares to retreat, but Carver’s hand around his wrist stops him. “No, it’s... it’s fine. I’m sorry, I’m. Not used to this. It’s been a while.”

“Okay. As long as I’m not making you uncomfortable.” When Carver shakes his head at that, Felix smiles and turns his hand, letting his fingers slip along the smooth skin of Carver’s wrist under his sleeve. “You blush so prettily it’s hard to resist.” 

Which, of course, only makes him blush harder. Carver clears his throat and, in a blatant bid for normalcy, asks, “How’s your thesis coming?” 

“Almost done,” Felix says with some measure of pride in his voice. “Now that the practical parts are through, the writing is the easy part. And I’ve already got the equations worked out, of course.”

“Of course,” Carver echoes solemnly. There’s a slight, self-deprecating smile playing around his mouth—they both know that Felix’s studies are miles and miles ahead of Carver’s comprehension, which is mainly limited to the simple calculations required for measuring wood and working out commission gratuity, but Carver has always been happy to listen to Felix discuss his work. So he takes the opening for what it is, focusing on his frustrations with Dr. Erasthenes and the rapidly dwindling hurdles as he nears the end of his degree. 

“You’ll come to graduation, won’t you? It’s not very exciting, I’m afraid, but Dorian is hosting a bit of a celebration after, and Mia is cooking.” 

Carver visibly perks up at that. “Really?”

“Ah, of course. That’s what seals the deal: the food.” 

“Mia’s a _chef_ ,” Carver defends himself in wounded tones, as if Felix doesn’t already know. As if Felix’s foot isn’t halfway up his trouser leg, feeling the lower curve of his calf with curious strokes. “Of course that seals the deal.” He squeezes Felix’s wrist gently. “Among other things.” 

“What did you mean, a few minutes ago?” Felix asks impulsively—Carver’s thumb on his pulse point gives him courage. “When you said you didn’t have me for keeps?”

“Oh. Well. Only that, you know, we’re just starting out. I didn’t want to presume anything.”

“Such as...?”

“How I should introduce you, I suppose.” Carver scratches his eyebrow idly. “Not that I anticipate doing that much, you sort of already know everyone important in my life.”

“Thank goodness,” Felix murmurs, smiling. He still hasn’t said anything to his father about Carver—he’s not even sure his father knows who Carver _is_. He may have mentioned his name a few times, in passing, but always glossing over it, afraid that his father would cotton on to how he felt about him. He knows his father will like him just fine, when they finally meet, but he’s not in any particular hurry. Like a teenager, it feels good to keep this to himself, a little heady rush to know he’s here, without Gereon’s knowledge, playing footsie with a cute boy for the first time and thoroughly enjoying himself. 

“And somehow you haven’t run screaming,” Carver marvels. “Although to be fair you haven’t spent much time with Marian.”

“Marian seems perfectly lovely,” Felix says stoutly, though his only real experience with her was in Greece, where he was a bit preoccupied admiring Carver’s physique and trying not to trip over himself every time they spoke. _And that’s all mine, now_ , he thinks slyly, eyes wandering over the way Carver’s sleeves strain around his folded biceps.

“Time will cure you of that notion. Bethy’s all right, at least, she makes up for a lot. You’re lucky, not having an older sibling.”

“Dorian fills that role just fine,” Felix says dryly. “I can’t count the number of times I got in trouble because of him.”

“He does seem to have that aura, like he’s always on the cusp of pulling off some ridiculous heist.”

“He’s always been that way, trust me. Thank goodness he has Cullen now to temper him.”

Carver fiddles with his wine glass, and his hand in Felix’s grows a bit tense. “So have you and he never… um…”

“Me and… Dorian? Oh, god, you mean romantically?”

“Er, yeah. If that’s not too forward. Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, that was a stupid question.” He’s blushing up to the roots of his hair, now, so painfully adorable that Felix has to bite back a smile lest he offend him.

“It’s not a stupid question. We… well, the answer is complicated, I suppose. I never felt any romantic inclinations toward him growing up, nor he for me, but after high school—well, Dorian’s father was rather horrible to him when he came out, there was a big fuss. Our families have always been close, and my dad kind of took Dorian in when the whole thing happened. He was just starting uni at the time and I was in sixth form, still following where he led. And we decided, well… if he was gay and I was bi, and we were best friends, why not try it?”

Carver looks torn between horror and fascination, likely picking up on the tone of voice Felix carries with him at the memory. “And? How did it go?”

“Well, we went to dinner and a movie, as I recall. We tried holding hands during, at that was just awful and sweaty so we stopped. Dinner was at some queer pub, I don’t even remember where, and afterward we tried the whole kiss-at-the-front-door schtick and, well. No. Just, no.” His nose is wrinkling up just thinking about it. “Not that Dorian’s not attractive or anything, because he is, objectively. But it was like trying to kiss a sibling, I suppose—not that I have one, but it’s the nearest comparison I can think of.” He shrugs. “It was a tiny bit disappointing, because it would have been perfect, two friends who already knew each other in and out becoming boyfriends. Maybe even Halward would have come to accept it. That’s Dorian’s father,” he explains at Carver’s quirked eyebrow. “But it wasn’t meant to be, thankfully.”

“Thankfully?”

“Well, it worked out for him, didn’t it? And, um. It’s certainly working out for me, I think,” he adds in a lower voice. He hopes very much, as Carver blushes and buries his nose in his wine, that he’s not tempting fate.

///

Dinner is just as perfect as Carver had hoped it would be. Their food is perfect, just like he remembers, and Orana keeps the wine coming without being asked—by the time they’ve scraped their plates clean and have decided to split dessert, they’ve had two bottles between them. Feeling indulgent, and perhaps a little punch-drunk with the tangle of their sock feet under the table, Carver orders port to go with their dark chocolate espresso-infused tiramisu.

“Thank goodness we got a cab here,” Felix drawls, licking a little pat of cream off the tip of his spoon. His tongue is pink and perfect, and Carver watches his lips intently, hoping for another glimpse.

“Why? Are you feeling buzzed?”

“Maybe a little. Don’t worry, I’m in full control of myself.” He winks over their dessert dish and curls his toes against Carver’s ankle. He feels the answering flicker of heat in his belly like a flare of distant lightning on a dark, hot summer night. “Thank you for bringing me here. This was _much_ more enjoyable than Montsimmard would have been.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Carver demurs. He’s got enough good food and good wine in him that he’ll agree with anything that comes out of Felix’s mouth. “Like you said before, it’s just spending time with each other that matters. We can go to Montsimmard some other time, surely.”

Felix appears to consider this. He looks around the restaurant, which is a little quieter than it was an hour ago, now well past the dinner rush. They have time before Orana begins closing preparations, but it’s still and secluded in their corner, and Carver feels a rush of affection for him, prompted by the dim intimacy of the setting and the contented state of his belly. “Maybe,” Felix says finally, looking back around to him. Their hands have been tangled on the table almost the entire evening, and he strokes his thumb across Carver’s open palm thoughtfully. “I think I would be okay if we never set foot in there, actually.”

Carver blinks, taken aback. “That was vehement. Or, er, decisive. Why the sudden change of heart? I thought you were excited about it?”

“I was, or I thought I was. It’s stupid.” Felix frowns at the table, so Carver nudges the rest of the tiramisu his way. “Thanks. The only reason I wanted to go—well, one of the main reasons—was that my father took my mother there on their first date, years and years ago. It was just a bit of nostalgia on my part. Stupid, considering they’re divorced.” He laughs, but it sounds strangled and unhappy. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry. Hey.” He squeezes Felix’s fingers. “Is it—does it bother you, still?”

“Not really. I just wasn’t thinking properly when I placed the reservation, and now in hindsight… I think they still love each other, have I ever told you that? It was just the wrong timing. Their backgrounds made it difficult. Dad expected things, and Mum got angry, and… if it had been a decade later, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered so much that he came from money. But he did, and he let it rule his life, and I… really wish he hadn’t.”

Carver stares at the table, not quite sure what to say. The buzz of the wine has very quickly dwindled, it seems, leaving him off-kilter in the aftermath. “Fee…”

“I’m worried about him,” Felix mumbles. “He works too hard. He’s like Dorian that way—or maybe Dorian’s like him. But doesn’t have a Cullen to tell him when to pull back, and I’m not—I can’t do that. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried, but it’s like talking to a brick wall.”

Carver remembers, very sudden and clear, the argument he’d had with his mother back when Bethy was first diagnosed. He’d just moved into his flat a few months before, and then Beth got sick and he’d wanted to move back in to help out, but Leandra refused. At the time he’d been hurt, thinking she was trying to shut him out of their lives, but now he knows better. She hadn’t wanted him to give up his independence and this new, fragile life he’d begun to build for himself as an autonomous adult, and he’s since forgiven her for it. But the fight they’d had is still fresh in his mind, painful and full of silence.

“He’s a grown man,” he finds himself saying, hating the drawn expression on Felix’s face. “You may love him, but you can’t control him. That’s just how life is.”

“And when he works himself into an early grave?” Felix mutters, though it’s half-hearted.

“It won’t come to that, darling. He seems like a smart fellow. Heart surgeons tend to be, don’t they?”

“I suppose so.” There’s a reluctant smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “I like it when you call me that.”

“What?”

“Darling.”

“Oh. Yeah. Um, that kind of slipped out.”

“I don’t mind.” His eyes crinkle fondly in the lowlight. “Anyway, we don’t have to talk about my dad anymore. I don’t really know where that came from—must be the wine shaking my worries loose.”

“Don’t apologize. I want to know about the things that worry you. God knows you’ve heard me complain often enough about one thing or another. And… that’s what you do, isn’t it? Share your troubles with the person you care about?” He’s very proud of himself for that one—it didn’t even sound stiff coming out of his mouth. _Care, care, care_ he thinks sternly to himself. A four-letter word that isn’t quite so scary as the other one that longs to come out. But he’s already decided to save _I love you_ for when he’s absolutely sure.

They talk a little bit more, about nothing in particular, and when they hit a comfortable silence that stretches easily through the last of the port, Carver asks for the cheque. He waves off Felix’s attempts to split the bill and frowns. “Hang on a second. Orana’s shorting herself again.”

He slips away from the table and goes to lean against the hostess stand where Orana is tallying up accounts. She grins at him, slipping her pen behind her ear. “Have a nice evening?”

“Very nice, as you are perfectly aware, but what’s this?” He lays the receipt flat on top of her paperwork, thumb down against the corner to keep it from curling up. “You only charged me for _one_ bottle of wine, and I distinctly remember you bringing us two.”

“One is on the house, _falchino_. Don’t test me.” She glares at him, surprisingly forceful for such a petite woman. “I haven’t seen you look so happy in quite a while, and so consider this my congratulations. Even if you don’t have him _for keeps_ yet, you had better make sure you settle that debate quickly.”

“It’s settled, I think,” Carver mumbles, looking across the room to where Felix sits, happily licking traces of tiramisu off his thumb. “And thank you. For the wine, and, er. The advice.”

“Any time.” She grins like a shark and plucks his card out of his hand as he fumbles with his wallet. “Have a lovely evening, my dear, and I hope I will see you again very soon. _With_ your young man in tow.”

“You’re not old enough to call him my ‘young man,’” Carver complains, but he allows her to kiss his cheek as she hands back his card and receipt. Feeling vindictive, he signs an enormous tip along the bottom line that should cover approximately half the second bottle of wine, and bids her a fond farewell before heading back to their table.

“Are you ready?” he asks, hovering beside his chair without sitting.

“Yes. Just let me put my shoes back on,” Felix grins, leaning back to look under the table. “How did you get yours on so fast?”

“I have dexterous feet,” Carver says, straight-faced. Felix snorts with laughter and gathers his things, and when he finally stands up and slips his arm through Carver’s elbow, Carver leans down and kisses a smear of chocolate off his lips.

The cab ride is uneventful, warm and cozy with a drowsy Felix sitting flush against Carver’s side with his head on his shoulder. It starts to drizzle halfway through, and by the time they pull up to Felix’s apartment building, it’s become an outright downpour. “It’s all right, I have an umbrella,” Felix says, producing a small one from his pocket. And then, while Carver leans forward to ask the cabbie to wait, he springs out of the car and takes off for the front steps, leaving Carver behind.

 “You berk!” Carver shouts after him, but his outrage is halfhearted. The rain is sort of warm and drizzles harmlessly against his upturned collar, and the delighted peals of laughter drifting back to him through the rain only stretch his smile wider. He runs across the road and then slows to a lagging trot, slashing his feet through puddles vindictively, and by the time he catches up to Felix on his front stoop, his trousers are soaked up to his knees.

Felix is grinning at him, protected from the worst of it but still twinkling with the raindrops caught like stars in his dark hair. His lashes are very thick and dark as he makes room for Carver under the umbrella. “You brought _that_ upon yourself,” he says unrepentantly, nodding to Carver’s jeans. Carver feels very tall and looming suddenly and he begins to step back, but Felix follows him with the protective circle of the umbrella, nose wrinkled with concern. “Hey. Where you going?”

“I just—” Overhead, thunder claps tremendously. He’s trapped between the steadily building downpour behind and an unknown step down the rabbit-hole before. They’re at the _kiss-at-the-front-door schtick_ part, and for some reason it paralyzes him. “I didn’t want to crowd you.”

“I don’t mind.” Felix takes one of his hands and situates it firmly at his own waist, entirely free of hesitation. “All right?”

Carver’s fingers grasp reflexively—Felix is firm under his clothes, lithe with a slight softness at his belly that Carver has a sudden, fierce desire to bury his face into. “Yeah,” he says, or stammers, and Felix is smiling up at him with such earnestness and patience he can hardly stand it. His other hand wanders a bit and settles at last on the lapel of Felix’s coat, damp from the rain but warm from the heat of his body. Overhead, the umbrella wavers as Felix shifts closer. They’re nearly chest to chest. Carver lowers his chin just the slightest bit.

Felix, bless him, lifts up on his toes to meet him halfway. The first touch of their lips is damp from the rain and warm, rough with the shared texture of their beards. Carver tries to break away to test the waters, find a new angle, but their mouths cling and Felix presses into him harder, so he gives in, wraps his arms fully around his lean waist and traces the inner skin of Felix’s lower lip with his tongue. Felix gasps and tangles his free hand in the hair spilling over the back of Carver’s collar, and his breath is sweet and a little garlicky. Carver hums and licks inside. Delicious.

Felix swallows a whimper and digs his fingers in, nails scraping Carver’s nape. It’s a struggle to end it, but he has to, or he’ll be pushing Felix up against the door in full view of anyone unlucky enough to look out their window, and besides, they’re getting a bit damp, even sheltered from the worst of the downpour as they are. He breaks the kiss reluctantly, and Felix licks his lips—Carver’s eyes follow the movement like a jungle cat first spotting its prey.

“Do you want to come in?” he asks lowly, thumb still drawing mesmerizing circles on the back of his neck. “For, um, coffee? Really coffee, not…”

“I think I’d better not,” Carver admits. He feels bad about turning him down, but Felix looks like he understands. Looks like he _sympathizes_. Not that that makes it any easier. Carver has to force himself to step away, and even then his hands only find Felix’s flushed cheeks and cup them for another soft, tender kiss. “Good night,” he says, not letting go.

Felix smiles and turns to kiss his palm. “Good night, Carv. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

“We should do it again sometime,” says Carver, straight-faced, and finally steps back out into the full brunt of the rain. Felix is still smiling.

“Agreed. Text me?”

“Of course.” Bashfully, Carver lifts his fingers to his lips and blows Felix a kiss from the rain-soaked sidewalk. Felix’s smile softens as he reaches out and makes a little gesture as if to snatch it from the air and press it to his chest. Carver turns away and skips back across the road, saturated with rainwater and his neck burning under his collar, and too happy and lightheaded to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a week off (in case no one noticed), but we're back a little early with a loose "every weekendish sometime" update schedule. Also I don't know Italian, but some googling and asking around produced "falchino" which may or may not be correct. If it's not, let me know and I'll fix it!


	20. 20.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm running out the door to work but have this chapter a little bit late! Warning: hospital mention, neither of the boys are in trouble but if you're concerned check the warnings at the bottom of the chapter.

“Ssssooooooo, how’s things with Felix?”

Carver glares across the table at his twin and plunks the shepherd’s pie down hard enough to rattle the dishes. “Fine.”

“Oh, come on,” Fenris snorts, leaning back in his chair until the legs creak in protest. “A year of making moon eyes at him and now all you can say is that things are _fine_?”

“You two are such gossips,” Merrill sniffs, eyes twinkling, as if she’s somehow above their squabbling curiosity.

Bethy snorts. “What? It’s natural to want to know! C’mon, little bro, ’fess up.”

“What do you want to know?” Carver sighs as he starts dishing up dinner and passing it around. It’s their first monthly ‘Family Dinner,’ as Merrill calls it—Anders is out of the country, so Carver offered to host, begging his mum’s shep pie recipe to feed all four of them comfortably. Maybe next time he’ll invite Felix, after all the initial flurry has died down.

“You still haven’t told me about your breakfast date on New Year’s,” Bethy pouts, which isn’t strictly true. He’d given her the bare bones account, including their discussion of Felix’s status, almost as soon as it had happened. But Merrill is wriggling in her seat with ill-contained excitement, and Fenris is watching him across the table with muted amusement in his velvet-green eyes, so Carver sighs and gives in.

“All right. Have it your way. New Year’s Day—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Fenris says, waving his hands in the air. “Back up. I only know bits and pieces, and now I want the _whole_ story.”

“Me, too,” Merrill declares, sitting on the edge of her seat. She pokes her shepherd’s pie with her fork, releasing the steam from the cheese-smothered mash in a fragrant cloud around her face. “Start at the beginning.”

Carver mumbles and grumbles about it a little bit, but it’s mostly for effect. The truth is that he’s eager to blab about everything that’s happened in the last week—he’s restrained himself thus far to the occasional reserved text to Bethany, but everything is still new and exciting enough that it bubbles to the surface at odd moments, begging to be released. He busies himself with pouring wine and making sure everyone has enough water and then sits with a heavy sigh and picks up his fork.

“Well. We’re dating.”

The chorus of _awwww_ ’s he expects is, instead, a series of blank stares. Beth sighs piteously. “Really? That’s the best you can do?”

“What? It’s true!”

“And how did you _get_ there, Hawke? Did you punch him in the face and hope for the best?”

“What, like you did?” Carver snickers, and gets a bit of pea flicked at him for his trouble. “Oi. Fine. Um, New Year’s Eve we were alone in the kitchen and things sort of came to a head. We agreed to meet for breakfast the next day when everything was calmer and we weren’t quite so tipsy.” He glances at Bethany out of the corner of his eye, and she dips her chin very slightly in approval at this heavily censored version of the story. Thank goodness. He’s not sure he’s up to the task of admitting his attempted kiss, and then tiptoeing around the minefield of a conversation that followed over the phone.

“So breakfast went well, apparently,” Bethany prompts.

“Er. Yes. Very well. We talked about… well, a little bit of everything, and why we’d been so hesitant to admit our feelings, and decided to give it a go. And we’ve had two dates since then—two ‘real’ dates, I mean. I’ve visited him a few times at Calenhad and he’s come by the shop once or twice.” Three times, actually, and they’re burned into his brain he’s memorized them so well. The precise curve of Felix’s smile when he’s laughing at something Carver has said is the most readily available, a flash of an image he can grab hold of and relive whenever he likes.

Fenris kicks his foot under the table and he jerks it away with an injured expression. “Ouch! What was that for?”

“Your face was turning to putty. It was disturbing.”

“Right. Like I’ve never caught you staring into space thinking about Doctor Dolittle.”

“Fuck you,” Fen says mildly, as Merrill and Bethany burst into laughter. “Come on then, details. Have you done the dirty yet, or are you playing the long game?”

Carver scowls at his plate, and this time it’s genuine. “Why does everyone assume my first order of business is to jump his bones and not… I don’t know, _romance_ him?”

“Pardon me,” Fenris says, in a strange tone of voice that he’s not sure how to interpret. “There was a time not so long ago that jumping someone’s bones _was_ the first order of business. Or one of them, at any rate. And who is ‘everyone,’ pray tell?”

Carver sighs and tries not to think of Zev and that stupid, ill-timed kiss in the Pride float. “No one.”

“All right, stop teasing,” Bethany says sternly. “This is supposed to be a _nice_ evening together. So play nice, boys, or Merrill and I will have our own tea party next time and you won’t be invited.”

Fenris and Carver exchange eye rolls, and Carver subsides, silently grateful for Bethy’s timely interference. He doesn’t feel like getting into the details of his sex life right now, even with these people, his best friends in the entire world—not yet. Not when he’s not even really sure what that sex life looks like, or _will_ look like. He’s willing to wait for Felix to be ready, however long that takes, but explaining the particulars feels invasive.

“When are Felix and Anders going to be invited?” Merrill asks a few minutes later, when the initial savage hunger has finally abated.

“Maybe next week,” Carver says. “ _If_ you guys can behave.”

“We can behave! I promise.” Bethy bats her lashes. “But I think Anders is going to be away for a little while, right Fen?”

“A month in Nairobi,” Fenris agrees. “He’s helping train clinic staff in three different areas.”

“So next week? Oh, wait, never mind. We’ll be in Oxford next week.” Bethy bounces a little in her seat, wine sloshing around the bottom of her glass. “I can’t believe we’re leaving tomorrow!”

Carver can’t either, although he’s disappointed that he won’t be able to spend any time with Felix beforehand. He’d been planning a dinner out with his father for weeks, and that obviously took precedence over Carver. But Felix had promised to cook for him when he got back, and he’s looking forward to it. Felix was going to fix chicken makhani and naan— _my mum’s naan, because I’m shit at it_ —and even though he’s currently stuffing his face with shepherd’s pie, hunger twigs in the back of his head at the thought of it.

“You have to take pictures,” Merrill says sternly. “I want to hear all about it when you come home.”

Bethy swears to fill up her phone data with pictures, and Carver resigns himself to at least one day of playing tourist. Really, he doesn’t mind too much. The budding slightly-more-than-friendship between Merrill and his sister is stupidly adorable. According to her they haven’t done much but get coffee and window shop, but Carver can see the subtle shift between them anyway. The way their gazes linger fondly on each other, the way they lean close in laughter, the way they reach out to touch one another’s hair or shoulder or arm in way that carries more weight than friendship.

When dinner is finished, Fenris offers to do the dishes, so Carver lets him, feeling somewhat justified after the ribbing he’d received earlier. There’s a brief scuffle for the remote before they agree on Top Gear reruns. Carver is manhandled into being Bethy’s pillow, so he slumps at one end of the lumpy old couch and glances surreptitiously at his phone while the girls get comfortable.

 _how’s family dinner?_ is sitting in his inbox. Someone—likely Bethany, she’s the only one who can reliably guess his mobile passcodes—has added a small pink heart emoji next to Felix’s name. He smirks and swipes his thumb across the screen to reply, leaving the emoji for now.

_as hectic as I’d expected. I got grilled before we’d even started eating. how’s your dad?_

There’s a bit of a pause, and he gets distracted by the entrance of the Stig onscreen, so the buzz of the phone in his hand makes him start a little. Bethy tilts her head back from where it rests on his chest and levers her eyebrows skyward. “Are you texting, Carver Hawke?”

“What, am I not allowed to text during racecar hour?”

“Oh, fine, go ahead. It _has_ been… what… twenty-four hours since you last saw him? You must be pining away.” She winks, softening the snark, and he lets it slide.

 _No idea. He canceled._ A very taciturn response for Felix. Carver feels his chest tighten with sympathy.

_I’m sorry. come over? we’re just watching top gear and bickering at the telly._

_Thank you_ , is the swift reply, _but I’m in a bit of a mood tonight, I’d rather not subject you to it._

Carver chews his lip briefly before composing a reply. _I don’t mind. maybe you can drop by after everyone leaves, or I can come visit you? unless you don’t want company. x_

The _x_ feels daring, but he adds it anyway. And the response, when it comes ten minutes or so later, is worth it. _Thank you <3 I’ll let you know?_

Carver sighs, a little disappointed, but sends an affirmative reply and puts his phone down, trying to focus on his family. Between the telly and the impromptu game of Up and Down the River ignited at the kitchen table—wherein Carver loses and regains twenty quid in the space of half an hour, and Bethy just _gains_ —he almost forgets about their text conversation.

Around midnight, Merrill and Bethany beg off, adjourning across the hall to have tea and possibly cuddle before going their separate ways. Fenris ducks out a few minutes later, toothpick between his teeth and apology in his eyes. He’s not the sort to come out and say _sorry_ very often, but this serves just as well. Carver bids him goodbye and silently forgives him for his earlier pestering in the same breath. He closes the door with a sigh and checks his phone.

_are you still awake?_

The time stamp is five minutes ago. Carver feels a twist of uncertainty. _yeah, just saw everyone out. what’s up?_

_I might head your way if that’s all right?_

_always._

It’s only about fifteen minutes between their apartments, so Carver throws himself into tidying. Dishes washed and put in the drying rack, the big pan left to soak; pillows straightened on the couch and the rumples taken out of the rug; crumbs swept off the table and shoes arranged neatly by the door. He pops into his room, just in case, and makes the bed over, trying not to give in to the temptation to change the sheets. He’s just debating whether he should change the cat’s litter box—in spite of the fact that he changed it earlier in the day—when the pager buzzes from the other room. He runs through the living area and skids across the polished wood floor to push the intercom.

“Hello!”

“Hey, Carver? It’s me.”

It definitely sounds like Felix, if Felix had a head cold and was running on four hours of sleep. Carver tries to bite back his worry. “Hey, yeah, come on up.”

Just to keep his hands busy, he puts the kettle on and pulls down two mugs. He’s fishing around in his tea tin when the door opens and creaks shut again. Carver turns around and immediately finds himself with an armful of Felix. He hugs him back fiercely, nose pressed to the top of his head, and he lets Felix dig in his fingers without complaint.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

“Ughhh. I don’t know.” He draws back and straightens his glasses. “I’m probably just being dramatic.”

“Well have a cuppa and tell me about it—if you want to,” he amends, and Felix smiles tiredly.

“That sounds nice.”

When tea has been made, they adjourn to the couch, Carver trailing him to follow his lead. When Felix tugs him down beside him and curls up against his side, he puts his arm around him and cradles his tea to his chest with his free hand, letting the warmth of his body and the lumpy softness of the couch ease into his bones.

“How was dinner?” Felix asks, deflecting.

“Good. Probably for the best you weren’t here, they wanted to know _alllll_ the nitty-gritty dirty details.”

Felix snorts. “The dirty details? Did you tell them about our very risqué evening eating cheese and playing on our phones the other night?”

“No, I figured it was best if I censored that,” Carver deadpans. Felix giggles against his shoulder and he smiles, stretching out his toes against the rug. “I figured you wouldn’t want me blabbing the intimate details of your relationship, even to our friends.”

“Well spotted.” Felix sighs and inhales the steam rising from his mug. “Honestly, I don’t mind if you want to talk about us. We’re hardly a secret—we never have been. Dorian has been giving me shit almost from day one.”

“About…?”

“Making a move. My feelings haven’t really been a secret with him. Whatever I don’t tell him, he figures out some other way. I refused to admit how I felt about you for a long time, but he knew anyway.”

“I think everyone knew,” Carver admits ruefully. “So it stands to reason that they want all the details _now_. They’ve been rooting for this for a long time.”

“Hmm.” Felix tilts, and his head lays perfectly right above Carver’s collarbone, cradled in the crook between jaw and shoulder. He wonders idly if other parts of them will fit so neatly together, as if they were made for it. “And how are Beth and Merrill?”

“Good. Too cute for words. It’s kind of disgusting,” he says, perfectly aware of the irony with Felix snuggled close against him—Felix is, too, by the way he snorts in reply. “But they’re happy, so.” He turns his wrist just so, scraping the pads of his fingers behind Felix’s ear. “Are you happy?”

“With you? Very.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Is this you trying to get me to talk about my father?”

“Only if you want to.”

“Right. Well, I suppose I ought to, since I drove all the way over here for comfort. It’s just—it’s silly. But I don’t get to see him very often because of his work, and my studies, and we’ve been planning this dinner for weeks. And then he calls and says something came up.”

“That seems unfair,” Carver says, less bluntly than he wants to. Maybe it’s the result of losing a parent, by he has always felt like his family is particularly close, and particularly intentional about keeping it that way. But it’s not for him to criticize. “Are you going to reschedule?”

“Eventually, perhaps.” Felix sits up, at the edge of the cushion, and puts the rest of his tea down on the coffee table. “But I’m not going to initiate. If he wants to see me, he’ll have to make the effort.”

“Good,” Carver says staunchly. His arm has fallen away from Felix’s shoulders, so  he lets his hand rest on his spine, just between his shoulder blades. When Felix arches back a little, he reaches up and squeezes the meat of his shoulder, stiff from stress and worry. “C’mere. Sit on the floor between my legs.”

“What for?” Felix says, coquettish, but he obeys regardless.

“Just a back rub, sweetheart, calm down,” he teases. “So you’re not going to say anything to him about it? Let him know how you feel?”

“I can’t believe that you, of all people, are telling me to have a conversation about feelings.”

“Hey! Wait, was that a jab at me or at you.”

“I think together we’re pretty ridiculously bad at communication. Oooh, yeah, that feels nice.” He tilts his head forward and Carver digs his thumbs in more firmly at the base of his skull. “Hmmmmmm.”

“I think we’ve been doing all right. Since we actually… y’know. Got together.” He moves back down to his shoulders and drops a kiss on the top of his head.

“Let’s see if we can keep it going, shall we?” Felix leans back, grinning, and it’s too perfect a scenario to resist. Carver leans down and kisses the corner of his mouth. Felix makes a happy noise in his throat and cranes back even farther, head resting on Carver’s thigh. His hands are still on his shoulders, but he lets one drift up, thumb tracing the contour of his bearded jaw before trailing down his throat; Felix shivers and they kiss again, mouths open and shallow.

An insistent buzzing from Felix’s pocket breaks the spell. He breaks away with a grimace of apology and fishes out his mobile. “Ugh. The hospital.” He declines the call. “He can leave a message and I’ll call him back. Right now I just want half an hour of uninterrupted time with my man.”

Carver snickers and welcomes him back onto the couch, surprised when Felix climbs straight into his lap and burrows his nose into his collar. “Hello there.”

“You’re okay with this?” Felix checks, pulling back to meet his eyes. His face is very serious all of a sudden, but he’s just a little pink in the ears, a tiny little detail that Carver grins and cups his face in his hands, bringing him just close enough that their noses touch.

“Absolutely. You hold the reins, sweetheart.”

“Mmm. Dangerous.” He grins, somewhere between seductive and self-conscious, and Carver feels his heart beat a little faster in his chest. _Easy_ , he tells himself. _Just take it slow._

“I like to live on the edge,” he quips, provoking bright laughter and a quick, shy kiss. But Felix comes back for more, not so shy this time, arms snaking around Carver’s shoulders and holding him there while he kisses him softly. Carver allows himself to touch, just a little—hands on Felix’s waist, skin prickling with the first heat of arousal at Felix’s weight across his thighs and his tongue in his mouth. He exhales long and hot through his nose and Felix hums, breaks away with a soft wet sound and comes back, head tilted for a better angle and his mouth open and seeking.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, and fights with himself for a moment before letting his hands slide up Felix’s back and down again, admiring the firm, lean muscle underneath his clothes. Felix makes a soft noise and kisses him harder, tongue pressing deeper and his hips twisting just a little bit in Carver’s grip. His fingers tighten and release reflexively. _God. You fucking gorgeous creature_.

Felix draws back at last, mouth shiny-red and begging to be kissed again. But Carver refrains, forcibly moving his hands to the couch cushions as Felix leans their foreheads together. “Good?” he asks—or rasps. His voice is clogged and he clears his throat, embarrassed. “I mean, are you…”

“Good. Very good.” Felix licks his lips and kisses him again, not quite so deeply, his fingers petting lightly at Carver’s beard. “This is definitely on the list.”

“What, kissing?” He straightens Felix’s shirt and thumbs a trace of saliva away from the corner of his mouth. “What else is on the list? You haven’t told me.”

“Ummm. Picnics. In the park or in the country or on the living room floor.”

“Check that last one.”

“Mm-hmm.” He runs a hand through Carver’s hair, smiling when Carver’s eyes flutter shut at the sensation. “I want to see something on the West End. And cook for you. That one is… in progress.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Carver says, eyes still closed. Felix shifts in his lap and he feels a breath of air across his face. He purses his lips. After a beat or two of silence, he feels the soft touch of lips against his own, and he smiles. “What else?”

Felix’s phone goes off again. Carver opens his eyes just in time to see the happy calm on his face rinse away like suds in the wash. “Hang on, I suppose I’d better check it.”

Carver gives his waist a gentle, sympathetic squeeze as he slips off him and scoops his phone off the coffee table. Felix half-turns, staring the screen, and pauses. “Why is _Dorian_ calling me? At—fuck—one in the morning?” He accepts the call immediately and lifts it to his ear. “Dor? What’s going on?”

His mobile isn’t set to speakerphone, but the room is quiet enough that Carver can hear every word. “Felix, I don’t want to alarm you, but I’ve just had some bad news. The hospital called me and said they couldn’t get ahold of you. Gereon’s just had a heart attack.”

Carver’s breath stops in his chest, but it’s nothing compared to Felix. His entire body goes rigid and his face drains of color until he’s ashen, and Carver stands up so fast his head spins, afraid that Felix might pass out. “He—what?” Felix croaks. One hand comes out for stability and lands on Carver’s shoulder, where it tightens so fiercely the soft cotton of his shirt creaks between his fingers. “Fuck, Dorian—”

“They’re working on stabilizing him right now, I don’t know if they’re going to need to do surgery or what,” Dorian says, voice tinny and hollow through the phone, and so quick and thickly accented with worry that Carver can barely make him out. “I’m—we’re headed over right now, Cullen is driving, just meet us there.”

“But is he going to be okay? What caused it?” Felix stammers, but Carver knows he won’t have any answers for him. Not yet. He takes Felix’s hand and detangles himself gently, kissing the knuckles before going to collect their coats and keys.

He can hear the moment Felix ends the call—a raw sob chokes in his throat, and when he turns Felix is leaning against the back of the sofa, covering his mouth with one hand. Carver moves across the room swiftly and surely, feeling the calm of a crisis settle over his shoulders like a misbegotten mantle. If nothing else, his life has prepared him for situations exactly like this, and he’s going to make the most of it.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he says, draping their coats over the sofa and drawing him into his arms. “It’s gonna be okay. All right? Get your coat on and I’ll drive you over.”

“I—okay.” Felix pulls out of his embrace, startled and wet-eyed. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’ve got your keys right here. You parked in the guest lot? All right, come on. Coat on, shoes are over by the door.” Gently but firmly he helps Felix into his jacket and chivvies him to the door. He knows, distantly, that he’s terrified for Felix, and for this man he’s never met but who he knows _must_ be a good man, to have produced a son like Felix. But he rolls it back, dialing down the fear. It’s not for him to bear right now. Felix needs him to be strong, so that’s what he’ll be. It’s what he’s good at.

The drive to the hospital seems to take three times longer than it usually does, and Carver has made the trip plenty of times to pick Bethy up after bloodwork or chemo. Felix sits like a stone in the seat next to him. Every time he glances over it’s as if he’s hardly moved at all, still huddled in his coat with his phone in his hands, staring desperately out the window as if he’s trying to blot out the terror screaming in his mind.

When they finally pull in, Felix is out of the car like a shot. Carver follows only a little more slowly. Just inside the lobby, Cullen is waiting for them. Carver’s a few steps too far to hear, but Cullen wraps Felix in a hug and says something into his ear, and Felix unspools like a knot of thread going slack.

“What’s going on?” Carver asks quietly, a hand going immediately to Felix’s back as they break the embrace. Felix leans into him, wiping at his eyes.

“He’s stable. They just found out.”

Relief wants to break over him like the tide against a dam, but he holds himself above it, unmoved like stone. “Do they know what caused it?”

“Bloody overworking himself, probably,” Felix says bitterly, turning away. Carver watches him go, surprised, but Cullen shakes his head.

“He’s not entirely wrong. Gereon has a history of ignoring his own symptoms in favor of doing his job. And now it’s finally caught up with him. But for now, the outlook is positive.” He jerks his head. “Do you want to come up? He’s still in ICU, but there’s a smaller waiting room—Dorian’s there now.”

“I… think I’d best not. I don’t even know him.” He doesn’t even know if Gereon knows that Carver exists, and wouldn’t that be an awkward introduction? “I’ll just make sure Felix is all right.”

At first he doesn’t know where he’s gone, but then he sees a flash of red outside the revolving doors, trapped like a butterfly behind glass. He follows it, pushing out into the cold night air, and finds Felix pacing on the pavement, chin tucked into his scarf. Carver lets him be for only a moment or two before his worry gets the better of him.

“Felix. You should come inside, the cold air isn’t good for you.”

Felix scoffs, but the sound is muffled in his scarf. “Well I’m not the one lying in a hospital bed right now, am I?”

“No, but you could be,” Carver retorts. “Please. Let’s not have two Alexiuses hospitalized in the same night.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

But he comes anyway, close enough to rest his head against Carver’s shoulder and no farther. Carver wants to press him, demand he come inside, but he holds the words back behind his teeth. _Don’t push him. Not yet._ Instead he rubs the back of his head gently, soothing him, listening to the quick, rough breaths puffing through his nose as he calms down.

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” Felix says at last, pulling away. He hasn’t been crying, but his eyes are red-rimmed anyway, and his voice is hoarse from the cold. “I can’t believe the hospital called me and I _declined the call_.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Does it matter? I should have answered anyway, and instead I was busy having a petty fit like a broody teenager. _Ugh_.” He knots his fingers into fists and presses them to his eyes. “If only I had been there. I should have—I should have gone to his office anyway, brought him takeaway. I could have seen the signs, I would have _known_ something was off.”

Carver gnaws on his lower lip, watching him waver on the pavement between anger and grief. The prognosis may look good, but the terror, while it lived, was real, and now comes the fallout. “Fee, it’s not your job to take care of him.”

“Then whose is it?” he demands, whirling on him so vehemently that Carver takes half a step back. Felix seems to glow with rage in the light of the streetlamps and the ambient glow of London at night, his scarf like an angry slash of blood around his throat. “If not me, then who? He doesn’t have a spouse, he lives alone, I’m his only child. If he had friends outside his work I don’t know about them. He has _no one_ except for me and Dorian, no other family besides me. _I should have done something_.”

“Done _what_ , Fee? Come on, baby, please,” he says, moving to intercept his trajectory. But when he lays a hand on Felix’s arm, he yanks it back as if his touch burned him. Carver drops his hand.

“You should go home,” Felix says quietly, stiff-lipped. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Carver’s heart drops to his shoes. “Nothing I can do? Waiting around in hospitals is like my life’s work. I’m a pro. Please, let me stay. It might to have me—to have someone close by.”

“Dor and Cullen are here. And you should get some sleep, anyway. You’re leaving tomorrow for Oxford, remember?”

Carver closes his eyes. He’d forgotten entirely about Oxford. “So I’ll pull an all-nighter. It’s only a few more hours until we leave, anyway, if I tried to sleep now it would just fuck me up.”

“Carver.” Felix takes his hand, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You should get a few hours of sleep, at least. You want to be at your best for this week. Truly, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Carver asks humbly. “I promise, I can handle staying up a little late.”

“It’s almost two in the morning, Carv, I think we passed _a little late_ a while ago.”

He squeezes Felix’s hand and hesitates. “Are you upset with me?”

“Upset with myself,” Felix says, somber. “Not with you. I’m sorry, I should’ve have yelled at you. None of this was under your control.”

“Or under yours,” Carver reminds him, though he’s not sure whether Felix believes him or not. “Listen. Text me or call me whenever you need. Whatever you need. All right? If I need to I can step out of the competition, Rue’s more than capable of carrying the Knight Club on her own.”

“But what about Beth?”

“What about her?”

“I know she’d been looking forward to this trip for a while…”

“She would understand. Some things are more important.” He touches Felix’s cheek gently and feels an impossible swell of relief when he doesn’t pull away. “ _You_ are important to me, all right?”

Felix nods, chin slumped tiredly to his chest, and Carver takes him into his arms. “As soon as something changes…” he mumbles into Carver’s shoulder.

“Let me know. Say the word and I’m here, Oxford or no Oxford. All right?”

Felix nods, and there’s nothing more Carver can do except leave.

He takes a cab home in spite of the expense, leaving Felix his car and his keys. The cabbie tries to make small talk, but he ignores him until he shuts up and tips him for his silence. When he finally lets himself into his flat, he feels drained and hollow, and though his mind is running circles and his belly is sour with worry, he falls asleep in minutes and sleeps like the dead.

When he wakes five hours later to the unforgiving screech of his alarm, there’s a text waiting: _he’s going to be fine. call for details when convenient._

Carver exhales and rolls over. Five more minutes.

///

Felix hangs up after bidding Carver farewell and slumps back into his father’s hospital room. Private, thankfully—nothing less for the man who saved the Prime Minister’s life—and lit gently with the early morning light filtering through the tasteful blue curtains, he could almost believe it was a tiny hotel room, if not for the small mountain of machinery and the cloying aroma of antiseptic permeating everything.

On the bed, Gereon stirs. He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last few hours, but this time his eyes latch onto Felix and he attempts a ragged smile, so Felix scoots his chair a little closer and takes his hand. “Hey, Dad. How do you feel?”

“Thirsty,” Gereon rasps. His face is grey under his cannula, though, so Felix hits the button to summon the nurse and goes to fill a small paper cup with water.

By the time the nurse has come and gone and Gereon is drifting more comfortably in an opiate-induced haze, Felix isn’t sure whether he wants to slap him or cry at him. But he does neither, just returns to his chair and laces his fingers together, tightly enough that he can feel the bones creaking in protest. He bows his head, uncertain of what to say. Uncertain whether any of it will even make it through, doped up on painkillers and his body recovering from its earlier trauma.

“ _Abni_ …”

Felix lifts his eyes. Gereon is looking at him, grey eyes focused and his mouth downturned. “It’s been a while since you’ve called me that.”

“Not since you were small.” His voice seems so weak and fragile to his ears, but by the set of his mouth Felix knows he’s determined to speak his mind. “Felix, I’m so sorry.”

Felix exhales in a rush. “Sorry for what, Dad?”

“For cancelling our dinner. I was… embroiled in research and I thought, well, he won’t mind, he knows my work is important. But then.” He takes a breath, eyes turning inward as he searches for the right words. “Then I realized what was happening, and as much as I didn’t want to subject you to… to watching your father go into cardiac arrest, I… I thought, how foolish of me, that the last thing I should see in this life would be books and papers rather than the face of my son.”

Like wet tissue paper in a giant’s fist, Felix crumples. The shock, the anger, the fear—all of them coalesce and escape him simultaneously, wracking his body with dry sobs. He leans against the mattress and buries his face in his arms, ashamed but unable to stop the tide.

When it slows, and he’s able to think and breathe again, he realized he can feel his father’s hand in his hair. Gentle and familiar, even with the hard edge of the oximeter scraping the line of his skull. He wipes the wetness from his face and just breathes.

“I forgive you,” he whispers. “Just. God. Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Gereon chuckles, a warm, aborted sound that seems to rattle in his chest. “Such is the mantra of the father ever chasing after his son.” He sighs. “I’m afraid the roles have quite reversed, haven’t they?”

Felix dredges up the memory of talking with the doctor, just half an hour ago, and sits up. “About that. Dad, what would you prefer—for me to come live with you for a few months, or the reverse?”

Gereon blinks at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re going to need someone around while you recover, and obviously that someone is going to be me. I won’t hear of you hiring a nurse or any other nonsense—I was going over the discharge procedures with your doctor and I’m more than capable of doing everything that needs doing. It all depends on where you’re more comfortable. Obviously the townhouse is what you’re used to, but my flat is closer to the hospital and the building has a pool and a gym for when you’re ready to start physical therapy—”

“Felix…”

“And I thought when it starts to get warmer and you’re stronger we could get out to the estate. It’s been forever since either of us have been, I know it would be good for you to get some good country air into your lungs and stop trying to race around the city doing a million things at once—”

“ _Felix_.”

“What?”

Gereon’s lips twitch, but his eyes are sad and serious. “Felix, I am not your responsibility.”

“Yes you are! Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Everyone?”

“Ca—Cullen told me I wasn’t responsible for you, but I’m having a hard time figuring out _who is_ , if not me,” Felix stammers, hoping his father doesn’t pick up on his stumble. He’s really going to have to tell him about Carver. Soon. Just… not quite yet. “I’m your son. I’m supposed to look out for you.”

“Well goodness, I’m not on my deathbed quite yet. It was close, I admit, but I have many years left before senility takes over, I think,” Gereon says, though the quiet hiss of the machinery and the limp weight of his hand against the coverlet belies his words.

“Dad, please. Let me do this.” Felix holds his hand gently, mindful of the oximeter, and leans forward earnestly. “I want to.”

Gereon sighs. “As if I could ever say no to that face. Lucky for me you’ve always used that power sparingly.” He squeezes his son’s hand in return, weakly. “Have it your way. But I won’t have this playing nurse business interfere with your studies, hear me?”

“Yes, Dad,” Felix parrots, strangely relieved at the familiar mantra. _At least some things never change._

Gereon falls asleep a little while later, and Dorian appears like a specter to bully him home and into a shower. “You look like you were in a stampede, Felix,” he clucks, plucking at his rumpled clothing. Knowing it’s just an outlet for the night’s turmoil, Felix lets him fuss over him, driving home with him for a few hours to make sure he showers and naps and puts something substantial in his stomach.

When they return in the early afternoon, Carver’s farewell text sitting heavy in his pocket— _keep me updated x_ —Gereon is not alone. Perched in the visitor’s chair, her silver-violet hair swept up in a neat chignon, is Lilavati. Felix stops short in the doorway before Dorian’s momentum carries them both through, and he goes to kiss her cheek, numb with surprise.

“Hello, Mum. I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Because it took a text from Dorian to inform me about what was going on?” Lilavati inquires, with a bite underneath her gentle tone. She takes his hand and squeezes it. “No, don’t apologize. You’ve had more than enough to deal with these last few hours.”

“Still. I should have called. Dad, how are you feeling?”

“Perfectly fine,” Gereon snips, though he’s obviously still in pain, too weak to even manipulate the bed into a sitting position. Felix does it for him, and gets a grunt of thanks. “Please, talk to your mother. Maybe you can make her see reason, since I am obviously incapable of it.”

“You’re the one who’s always had a difficult time _seeing reason_ , Gereon,” Lilavati says tartly.

Felix wants to groan dramatically and leave, but something in his father’s face tells him he won’t be getting away with such behavior. “What’s going on?”

“She’s trying to convince me to move in with her.”

Felix turns on his mother, eyebrows skyrocketing. “She _what_?”

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s not as if I’m trying to wrangle him back into my bed. And don’t _even_ turn your nose up at me, Felix Kshitij Alexius, how on earth do you think you were born?”

“ _Mum_ ,” Felix sighs. “I think we’re getting off topic.”

“Gereon will need care when he’s released,” Lilavati says calmly, though amusement is twinkling in her eyes. “I have no immediate travel plans and I often work from home, which makes me an idea candidate.”

“Candidate?” Gereon echoes. “Are you competing for the honor of helping me to the bathroom every time I need to piss?”

“Mum, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of him,” Felix says, ignoring his father. “My only ‘work’ right now is finishing my thesis, and I can do most of that from home. Whether that’s my apartment or the townhouse, which I assume will be a more comfortable location for him.”

“Our home is also an option,” Dorian interjects, throwing the debate askew. “It’s close to Calenhad, and there’s plenty of room for caretakers, whoever that might be.”

Gereon clears his throat. “Is no one going to ask me what I want?”

Felix looks down at him from over his mother’s head, mind spinning a little with the surreality of it all. He can count the number of times he’s seen both his parents in the same room on one hand, let alone within two feet of one another. “What do you want, Dad? Obviously your opinion is the one that matters.”

Lilavati makes a soft noise of derision in her throat, but Gereon speaks over it. “I want to go home, preferably as soon as possible. Any and all of you are welcome to visit,” his eyes slide to his ex-wife, but he doesn’t amend his statement, “and I will have a visiting nurse stop in once in a while, but I would prefer it if Felix were to live with me for a month or two. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, Lila. Dorian. Truly, it means the world to me. But Felix and I discussed it already and he is determined to do this. So.” He smiles tiredly, and Felix bends and kisses his forehead.

“All right, that’s enough visiting for today. Time to sleep, Dad.”

He shoos Dorian and his mother out of the room, pleased when it actually works, and accepts an embrace from both of them. “Let me know if you need any help,” Lilavati says sternly, taking his face between her hands. She smells of jasmine and lily-of-the-valley, and Felix accepts her touch, softening under its nostalgia. “Don’t be like your father and wait until the very last minute. If you’re struggling to cope, I want to know.”

“Yes, Mum,” Felix says obediently.

“Good boy.” She smiles and drops her hands. “You look very handsome with a beard, you know. I approve.”

“Thank you.”

Her dark eyes survey him more closely, lingering on his face. “You seem happy, under all of this.” She waves her hand at the door to Gereon’s room. “I hope that means good things.”

“I—I think so,” he stammers. Over her shoulder, Dorian folds his arms and looks smug, leaning against the wall a few feet away to give them privacy.

“Good. That’s good. You’ll tell me, won’t you, when you’re ready?” At his startled look, she levels him a knowing smile. “I’m your mother, darling. I can tell there’s something going on.” She taps his cheek gently. “A beard, a smile… I can tell. No secrets from me.”

“I… um. It’s early days,” Felix mumbles, thinking with some guilt of the snippy way he’d sent Carver away earlier. He should really call and apologize. Later. “But. I’ll keep you updated.”

“I suppose I can live with that. And I can always rely on Dorian to give me the scoop if things get _really_ exciting.”

Felix rolls his eyes and sees her off with a kiss, her laughter ringing faintly down the halls. When he returns, Dorian is standing outside the room with his phone in his hand and brows knit firmly together. “Something wrong?” he asks, fighting back the anxiety that rises far too easily in his chest.

“Not particularly. Viv is upset with me for dumping my classes on her again, but she understands the family emergency.” He lifts his eyes to Felix, frowning. “Don’t tell me you’re having chest pains, too.”

Felix drops his hand from where it was massaging his sternum. In truth his breath feels a little short, but not enough that he needs to make a big deal of it. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so.” Dorian slips his mobile phone back into his pocket. “Coffee?”

“I could use a pick-me-up,” Felix agrees. He really needs to text Carver back. And think about moving half his life into his father’s townhouse. And seeing the hospital pharmacist about his father’s medication. And…

“Stop.” Dorian nudges him with an elbow as they approach the elevator. “I can hear you worrying from here. It’s all going to work out.”

Felix just nods in silent agreement. One thing at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: parental hospitalization, no one dies. 
> 
> i'm sure there's a million more things that need mentioning but that covers the basics. sorry i'm a bit late on this one and enjoy.


	21. 21.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carver fucks up and makes things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: hospitalization, references to canonical parent death, lung cancer mention, panic attack. Please tread lightly, and know that everything turns out okay in the end. <3

Carver sits on a cold stone bench outside a tiny, crumbling church and tries to ignore his phone burning a hole in his pocket. Not that there’s anything of note in the inbox, just a clusterfuck of an outbox trying to reach someone—anyone—for news of Felix. He would think there was something wrong with his phone, but he’d been texting Bethany on and off all day from the competition, getting blow-by-blows of her tour of the city. He doesn’t have Dorian’s number, and Cullen is here on the trip so he can’t exactly text _him_ , nor does he want to confess that things might be… rocky, between him and Felix.

“Three weeks and you’ve already fucked up. Congratulations,” he mutters, scuffing his shoe in the frosty dirt. _Fuck, but it’s cold_.

His phone buzzes suddenly and he rockets upright, wrestling it free of his jeans in time to see the notification on the screen. _hey lil bro we’re ready for dinner if you are_ _J_

Beth and Rue are done window shopping, then. A small brotherly part of him is glad they’re getting along, but the rest is just drowning in his own worries. Sternly, he tells himself to stop being so self-centered. They’ve been competing very well—Rue has taken two more medals than he has so far—and Bethany is having the time of her life exploring all the rickety alleys and street shops and markets, and here he is pouting by himself in the cold.

“Grow up,” he says to himself and stands up, hiking his coat closer around his neck. He’d been running hot from competition when he first came out to brood, but now his body temperature has dropped drastically and he’s wishing he brought a heavier coat.

He meets Bethy and Rue at a firestone pizza bistro, feeling a little out of place in his windbreaker and jeans. The girls have hit it off immediately, it seems—they’ve both ordered big mugs of hot spiked cider to fight off the early spring chill, potent with the smell of whiskey, and they spend the meal trading stories about little brothers and trying to one-up each other with cute anecdotes about their girlfriends. Rue has finally started dating her friend who makes armor and weapons for reenactment groups (Dagna, he thinks the name is), and has plenty of photos of the two of them surrounded by the fire and billowing smoke of Dagna’s forge, Rue all sooty-cheeked and determined while her petite girlfriend, with arms like a champion wrestler and her hair tucked neatly under a hijab, slams a hammer against a white-hot strip of metal hard enough to make sparks fountain up from the anvil.

“That’s so cool,” Beth sighs, flipping through the photos on Rue’s phone. Carver can see the artist’s spark in her eye, stifled for so long and now burning bright again with the return of her health. “Do you think she would let me come watch her work sometime?”

“Oh, absolutely. She teaches classes for students groups and things, but I’ll just mention you and I’m sure she’d let you pop in sometime. She loves showing people how to do this stuff almost as much as she loves actually doing it.”

“Do you think Felix would like this?” Bethy says suddenly, turning to Carver and catching him with a slice of pizza shoved in his mouth. “We could have a double date. Or a triple date!”

“Unless you move to Oxford to be a studio assistant,” Carver says after he’s swallowed. It must come out a little colder than he means it, because Bethy’s smile fades just a little.

“Well I’d still come back to London to visit, of course. And I wouldn’t be moving for another six months anyway. _If_ I even get hired.” She jostles their feet together under the table, reminiscent of a hundred family dinners trying to rile each other up. “You gonna miss me or something?”

“Not at all,” he deadpans.

She snorts and turns back to Rue’s phone. “Liar.”

The rest of dinner progresses normally, and they walk together back to their bed and breakfast. Cassandra and Cullen are there when they arrive, playing a tense and silent game of chess in the sitting room by the fire. Rue opts to stay and watch, but Bethany trails Carver up to the room he shares with Cullen. He successfully pretends she isn’t there until the moment she shuts the door behind them and leans against it arms, folded, and says, “Well? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Carver says stubbornly, shedding his ratty post-competition clothes for cozy pyjama bottoms and a soft, well-worn sweatshirt with his father’s alma mater, Kirkwall U, barely visible on the front.

“Carv…”

“I’m serious. I haven’t heard from him since we left London four days ago. There’s literally nothing for me to say.”

Bethany’s eyes pop. “What? Is something going on? Besides his father, I mean.”

“I think his father is a big enough concern all by itself,” Carver says, sitting on the end of his bed. The mattress creaks under his weight and he rubs his eyes tiredly, wishing for his own bed and his own flat, with Peaches there to drape herself over his lap and comfort him. “I might have screwed up, Beth.”

“Tell me.” She steps away from the door and kicks off her boots, coming to sit cross-legged on the bed beside him.

“We fought, sort of. I mean, I think we did. Felix was angry at himself for not being there when Gereon went into cardiac arrest, even though his dad is the one who canceled their dinner appointment. I was trying to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that his dad wasn’t his responsibility, and he got angry. But I think—I think he wasn’t just mad at himself, he was mad at _me_.”

“What for? Because of what you said?”

“No, because he was with me when the hospital called him, and he declined the call.”

“Carver, he can’t blame _you_ for that. He was the one who decided not to take the call. If he wants to be mad at himself, so be it, but if he’s throwing a temper tantrum because you were present, that’s just…” She trails off, angry enough that her fists are turning white at the knuckles where she presses them to her folded-up knees. “I didn’t think he was that sort of person.”

“What sort of person?”

“The petty sort.”

In spite of the cold shoulder he’s been receiving all week, Carver is suddenly anxious to defend him. “He was recovering from the shock of it, Beth, I don’t think he really meant it.”

“Then why hasn’t he called you back or texted you? What have you been saying to him?”

Carver sighs. “Here. Just take my phone and see for yourself.”

He already knows the contents of his outbox by heart. One text message a day to Felix, and one to Merrill to see if she knew anything—doubtful, but considering their overlapping circle of friends, he thought he might as well try. Her answer hadn’t been at all illuminating, and the rest had gone unanswered.

_Hey, we’ve arrived in Oxford safely. just checking in to see how you’re doing. x_

_is everything all right? hope your dad is recovering speedily. competitions are going well so far but I’d rather be with you. xx_

_I was thinking of you today. We went to a museum I think you would have liked. hope you’re doing okay. x_

_Fee, I’m starting to worry. Please text me back so I know you’re all right._

Bethany finishes reading and passes the mobile back to him. “I think he’s just preoccupied with his father. It’s hard to communicate when you’re taking care of someone—it just takes all your focus. You know that.” She hooks their arms together and leans against his sturdy weight. “We go back tomorrow. Then you can drop in and see for yourself that he’s all right.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” A small, petty part of him doesn’t even _want_ to ‘drop in.’ He wants to come back to London and not say a word, just go back to his normal, everyday life and see how long it takes Felix to come crying. But that’s a stupid thought, so he buries it and composes one more text. _I miss you. Is it all right if I stop by the hospital tomorrow to see you? I’ll assume that’s where you’ll be until I hear differently. Be safe. xxx_

///

By the time Carver disembarks from the train at Paddington, he’s tetchy and sore, long legs cramped after sitting for so long. He shakes hands all around, murmuring congratulations—he can’t even remember what medals he’d won, or how Rue had done in the final national round that he hadn’t made, his thoughts buzzing in every direction like swarming bees. He kisses Bethy’s cheek as he puts her in a cab and makes his own way to the underground, outlining his plan in his head.

First, home. He drops by Merrill’s to thank her for looking in on Peaches, but she’s out, so he scribbles a note and tapes it to her door with a hastily-scribbled smiley face. Then he showers and changes, hands nearly shaking with excess energy, and walks the handful of blocks to the hospital.

He doesn’t know why he’s expecting Felix to be waiting for him. Wishful thinking. No, not wishful thinking— _logical_ thinking. They’re dating, they’ve been practically in each other’s pockets these last few weeks, and now nothing. Maybe Felix is the type to close himself off when tragedy strikes, but Carver can admit to himself the idea is almost insulting. He’s nothing if not used to tragedy, used to dealing with the aftermath. He’s not always _good_ at it, but he knows all about the coping, the night terrors, the sleeplessness, the incessant worry wearing down the bones. _I should have stayed_ , he thinks as he bypasses the receptionist and heads up the stairs to the ICU wing. _I shouldn’t have gone to Oxford._

When he arrives at the doors to the ICU, he’s stopped at the nurse’s station and asked for his name. “Carver, I’m here to see a Mr. Alexius?”

The nurse on duty flicks through the records on the computer, mouth pursed. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Gereon Alexius was released to a private room two days ago, and he’s requested no visitors except for family. Or were you looking for Mr. Felix Alexius?”

“I—yes, that’s right,” he stammers, brain slow to catch on to her meaning. “Do you know where he is?”

“He was admitted yesterday, I believe they’re in the process of clearing him for transfer to—sir! Sir, where are you going? I haven’t given you clearance to—!”

The rest of her tirade is cut off as the swinging doors fall shut behind him. _Felix was admitted to the ICU? What the fuck?_ He knows he’s not thinking clearly—knows it when he elbows a male nurse out of the way and plows on through down the hall, peeking in the window of every room he passes, sidestepping gurneys and worried family members. He’s nearly to the end when someone steps out of a room, nearly clocking him in the face. He jerks back, ready to snarl an insult, and stops short.

“Carver?” Dorian blurts, wide-eyed. “What are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here? Where the fuck is Felix?” He’s already craning his neck behind him, looking into the room. It’s split in two, the curtain drawn on one side, but on the other he can see Felix lying on the bed, disturbingly still with an oxygen mask over his face. Fear seizes him in its icy grip, and he is paralyzed. “Dorian, what the _fuck_?”

“Sir!” A nurse finally grabs his arms, and another soon follows, both of them the burly security-guard types that wouldn’t look out of place as bouncers at a club. “Sir, we _will_ call security and have you escorted from the premises if you won’t leave. You don’t have clearance to be here.”

“No, he’s fine,” Dorian says wearily. It’s the first time Carver’s seen him looking less than perfectly put-together—there are bags under his eyes, and his moustache is starting to droop, the evidence of being smoothed down too many times. “Let him in. He’s family.”

“He’s not allowed to be here,” says the first nurse as she arrives at a trot, red-faced, puffing a little from the jog, and waving her clipboard like a weapon in front of Carver’s face. “He’s not on the shortlist!”

With a sigh, Dorian grabs the clipboard out of her hand and scribbles something down. “Now he is. Happy?” He presses it back into her hands and turns around. “Come along, then, Hawke. Let’s get this over with.”

One by one, Carver’s arms are reluctantly released, but his fierce burst of energy has drained away. He rubs idly at the reddened marks their fingers left behind and steps into the hospital room. As if summoned awake by his presence, Felix’s eyes flutter open—hazy at first, and heavy-lidded, then flying open with fear, alarm? Carver can’t be sure. A sour bubble rises to the surface of his stomach, and he fancies he can taste the bile it leaves behind.

Dorian hovers at the foot of the bed, drawn and anxious. “I’ll leave you two alone, shall I?” When there’s no response, he gives a quick, short nod, mostly to himself, and leaves the room. The click of the latch falling shut sounds like a gunshot going off.

“What happened to you?” Carver whispers, too wracked with emotion to get near the bed. The world seems narrowed down to a single point, all in chaos but for Felix lying on the hospital bed, weak and pitiful. Carver _hates it_.

“Asthma attack.” His voice is barely audible, scarcely more than a whisper. His dark eyes slide off into the distance, as if Carver isn’t even there. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“You didn’t—you didn’t want to _worry me_?” His voice sounds tinny and hollow in his own ears, amused without being funny. He sounds like he’s breaking apart. “Felix, I was _already fucking worried_. I was worried that I had done something wrong, that you were upset with me, I was worried that you were so stressed out about your dad that you couldn’t even bother to text me back _once_ in the last four days. And then I come back and find out you’re in the ICU? Which was an accident, by the way, I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t come asking for a Mr. Alexius because _no one fucking told me._ ”

Felix is staring at him now, finally, instead of at the ceiling. He’s peripherally aware that Dorian can probably hear him shouting—and that he’s probably disturbing whoever’s on the other side of the curtain—but he can’t bring himself to care. His hands are shaking, but he still reaches out and touches the back of Felix’s hand, as gently as he can manage.

“What about Cullen? Didn’t he know?”

“No. It’s not life-threatening, and Dorian didn’t want him to be distracted from… from the competition.”

“Didn’t want him telling _me_ anything, you mean,” Carver growls. “Not ‘life-threatening’ my arse. You’re in fucking ICU, Fee, I know what that bloody means.”

“They’re moving me out today—”

“ _I don’t fucking care_ ,” Carver hisses, afraid that if he’s any louder his voice will become a roar. “Felix, just… why? _Why_ would you do this to me? You know—” He chokes, and stops, covering his mouth with his hand. “You know what happened to my dad. I know I haven’t talked a lot about it, but he died of cancer. Lung cancer. D’you know how terrifying it is to me, seeing you with an oxygen mask? It’s like—it’s like it’s happening all over again. And I can’t. I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” Felix whispers.

Carver’s heart twists. “I can’t be with someone who’s going to go behind my back and lie by omission, and then drop the bomb that oh, by the way, _I’m in hospital because my lungs stopped working_. Just— _fuck_. No, don’t, I don’t want to hear it, I _can’t_. I’m sorry.”

He must have been even louder than he thought, because Dorian is stepping into the room just as he turns to walk out of it. He shoulders his way past him without stopping and moves down the hall, numb to everything. Bile still fizzles in the back of his throat and his stomach is churning, palms sweating—he knows what’s happening, but he can’t remember how to stop it.

Dorian doesn’t follow him, so he finds a secluded bench that seems fairly out of the way and just sits, head down as he tries to breathe normally. The world is fuzzy and out of sync—people pass, and their footsteps don’t follow until long minutes afterward, like a half-forgotten memory.

He’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually he becomes aware of another presence at his side. Someone just sitting there, waiting. Waiting for him to come back. He knows it’s not Bethany—the cologne they wear is familiar, but not the pressed-flower smell his sister carries with her—and it’s not his mum, even though a part of him wishes it was. Eventually, curiosity buds and breaks through the white noise in his head. He looks up. Cullen is sitting beside him, a few handspans away, hands folded between his knees and his expression serious as he watches the negligible activity in this part of the hospital. Carver swallows.

“So you know?”

“Yes. I got back to the house and there was a note waiting from Dorian.” He looks over, eyes creased with worry, and slips a hand onto Carver’s knee, warm and steadying. “I’m sorry. I heard how things turned out.”

“Yeah, well. Bit of a shock.” He rubs his face to get the blood flowing, shaking off the crinkly slough of dread still clinging to his heels. “He’s going to be all right?”

“He’s fine. The stress with his father trigged an asthma attack yesterday, apparently, but he’s been on oxygen overnight and they’re releasing him tomorrow. Just another night of monitoring.” Cullen squeezes his knee. “You good, Hawke?”

“I think so.” He pushes himself off the bench and stands sort of upright, feeling stiff and sore as if he’d just run a marathon. “I think I’m going to head home. Get some rest.”

“Good idea.” Cullen stands too and puts his hands in his pockets. “You’ll stop by later? Come and see Felix?”

Carver bites his lip. “Will he even want to see me? He certainly didn’t seem all that interested in hearing from me this week.”

“I think he will. And even if he doesn’t, you’re the one who isn’t chained to a hospital bed, so it’s up to you to get in there and make this right. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Carver says automatically, feeling as if he’s answering for bad behavior to his father. Cullen’s mouth twitches in a faint half-smile, but he doesn’t mention it.

“Good. I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Right.” He shakes hands with him, the gesture feeling weirdly out of place, and makes his way slowly to the doors and, eventually, home.

Peaches is waiting for him when he arrives, eager to see him. She curls around his calves impatiently until he heaves her into his arms, and he dumps her on the bed, face-planting beside her in the bedding. He itches to text someone, to talk to someone, but he doesn’t know who. Or what he would say. Normally he would just text Felix, but that’s not exactly an option. Even if he was allowed to  have his phone—which he suspects he isn’t, in ICU—Carver doesn’t think Felix wants to hear from him. Not in person, and certainly not by text.

As if reading his mind, his phone buzzes. He drops it onto the bed beside his face and flicks open the message.

_Carver, it’s Dorian. I never had the chance to give you the ‘hurt him and I’ll kill you’ speech, so consider this it. P.S. against all odds, he does want to see you. be here tomorrow, room 312 in the recovery wing, or I swear to god I’ll drag you here myself._

///

“I don’t want to go.”

“Carver, you _have_ to. If you love him, you have to go.” Beth puts on her best _older sister_ face, brows drawn together fearsomely and her lips tight with purpose. “You _do_ love him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but keep your voice down.” He glances around the reception area as if waiting for Felix himself to pop out of the gift shop, dragging his oxygen tank behind him. “We haven’t used the L word yet, and if I fuck up one more time I might never get the chance.”

“So don’t fuck up, then.”

“Or I could just leave and not run the risk,” Carver suggests. It’s a perfectly valid option, but she snarls at him like she’s a mother bear guarding her cubs, and he takes a few steps back in trepidation.

“ _That_ would be considered fucking up, Carv. So get to it. Chop chop.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?” he asks plaintively.

“I’m going to get a cup of tea and sit right here and wait for you, sending you positive thoughts. Now go on. You’ve got this.”

“You’re a terrible cheerleader,” he informs her, but she ignores his attempts at sarcasm and taps her foot against the floor, waiting. He sighs. “I shouldn’t have said anything to you in the first place.”

“Well you did, and so this is what you get. Come on, Carv, you’re not giving this up so easily, are you?”

He glares at the floor. It’s true, the idea of abandoning Felix now is physically painful—but so is the idea of facing him again. Facing the specter of his father, something he’d hoped never to have to see again. “No,” he mutters at last. “You’re right.”

“I know I’m right. I’m glad to hear you do, too.” She tugs on his arm with increasing urgency until he finally bends down and accepts a kiss on the cheek. “For luck,” she says, patting his chest. “Now go on. Be a knight in shining armor. The love of your life is waiting.”

Carver snorts at the image, but he mentally girds himself and sets off for the recovery wing. When he steps off the elevator, he finds, to his dismay, that he’ll have no reprieve or time to gather his thoughts—the enemy is already waiting.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Dorian drawls, arms folded in front of his chest. He stands like he’s guarding the entrance to the hospital room, the door of which is mercifully closed. Carver swallows back his nerves and straightens his back as if preparing to face the Sphinx. “Do you have a little speech prepared, then?”

“I’m more of a improv sort of person,” he says, dry-mouthed and damp in the palms. “Fly by the seat of my pants and all that.”

“Yes, you are rather good at that, aren’t you? Particularly the flying off the handle bit.”

Carver snorts. “Look, are you going to let me in or not? I came just like you asked, and it was hard enough getting here, I’m not in the mood for one more trial.”

“Not in the mood? Forgive me if I’m not sympathetic. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Felix cry, and we _grew up_ together. It’s not exactly endearing you to me when one of those times is because of you.”

Carver winces. “Believe me, everything you can say to me I’ve already said to myself a hundred times. I just want to see him and apologize. And then, if he wants me to, I’ll leave. I promise.”

Dorian sighs and steps aside. “Say what you have to say, then,” he says grudgingly. “But I’m leaving the door open and in standing right here, and if I don’t like what I hear, you’re getting the boot.”

Carver takes a breath. “Thanks.” And he steps into the room, trying to forget Dorian’s lurking presence just outside.

Felix is sitting with the bed propped up when he comes in, looking a great deal better than he had the day before. His skin is no longer ashen, and in place of the oxygen mask he’s been given a cannula, which is still hard to look at but… not nearly as awful. He looks over when Carver comes close, eyes crinkling in a smile, but his hands are twisted in the coverlet and his lower lip is red from nervous nibbling.

Carver wants to go to him, touch his cheek and kiss his hair and make everything right, but he’s not sure if that will be welcome, so instead he hovers by the foot of the bed and says, lamely, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Felix parrots back. He sounds subdued, his voice made a dry rasp with the forced influx of oxygen bleaching the moisture from his throat. His smile wavers a bit. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long.” Carver rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes straying to the floor. “Bethy had to bully me into it, actually.”

The smile fades. “That desperate to avoid me, are you?”

“No! No, I didn’t mean—I just, I’m really bad at this. At apologies.”

“So am I,” Felix confesses. “But I need to. There are some—some things I need to say, Carv…”

“Wait. Just wait, please,” he says desperately, afraid that Felix is about to break things off without giving him a chance to say his piece. “Um, listen. I won’t bother you for very long, I just wanted to see you and say. Um. I’m sorry.” He rubs his damp palms on his jeans and stares at the floor. “What I said to you was unfair. None of it was your fault, except maybe the not telling me bit, but I can understand that. I shouldn’t have shouted at you, regardless, and I shouldn’t have left. So. You have every right to be upset with me, but I hope you’ll still let me... be here. Whatever you need. You’re still my friend, and I want to help support you, if you’ll let me.” He finally shuts up, but he can’t make himself look at Felix. _Let it be enough. Please, let it be enough._

“Carv.” The nickname finally peels his eyeballs from the floor, and he looks up to see Felix gesturing to the chair situated conveniently by the bed. “Come sit. Please.”

He obeys with alacrity, so much so that the metal rungs of the chair legs scrape across the floor horribly. He feels enormous perched on the flimsy plastic seat, and he must look it, too, because Felix lips twitch as he gazes at him from his flat hospital pillow. “Carv, I want you to be here. Of course I do, I—I just thought maybe you wouldn’t want to be.”

All his pent-up breath punches out of him so fast it leaves him dizzy. “You do? And I mean, of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Perhaps because I didn’t speak to you for four days and then was admitted to hospital and didn’t tell you a thing about it?”

“Yeah, well. Nobody’s perfect.” He ducks his head when Felix makes an incredulous noise in his throat. “Look, I may have lost it a little yesterday…”

“With good reason.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I still shouldn’t have gone off on you. And I realized, later—after I’d gone over the entire conversation in my head about thirty-five times—that what I said might have been misconstrued as… not wanting to be with you. Which isn’t true. This whole week has been kind of shit, to be honest, and we both did and said things we shouldn’t have, but… I don’t know, I feel like I’ve been through worse. And this, with your dad and then me having to go out of town and your asthma attack, it was tough, but we can get past it. I think. If you wanted to.”

“I want to,” Felix says immediately, reaching out his hand. Carver takes it, careful not to jostle the oximeter, and the touch of his hand is like the sun peeking out behind the clouds. “And Carv… I really am sorry. About not telling you, and you having to walk in and see me like…” He trails off, uncertain, and Carver looks at the floor.

“Yeah, that was… less than great. But I know you didn’t do it intentionally—I mean, there’s no way you could have known, so.”

“Is there anything else I should know? That you want to tell me, I mean. It’s not a life-threatening… well.” He has the grace look abashed when Carver lifts his eyebrows at him. “It’s not normally life-threatening. This was an outlier.”

“A fucking terrifying outlier,” Carver says bluntly. “I mean, aside from the oxygen mask and the hospitalization… repetitive coughing kind of freaks me out sometimes, but that hasn’t really happened yet since I’ve known you. Just don’t get a cold, okay?”

“Doubtful,” Felix says, a smile touching his lips. “That’s what the Atripla is for.”

“Right.” He scrubs his free hand through his hair, disbelief soughing out of him like a scythe through wheat. “Fucking… HIV positive and it’s the _asthma_ that gets you.” A little thread of terror worms through him, hot as an iron poker, and the words spill out of him without prompting: “I’m—I’m scared.”

Felix squeezes his hand gently. “Scared of what?”

“Of losing you.” He swallows tightly, not that it does much good. “Not of you leaving me, I mean, that would be awful but I could respect it, respect your choice. But if the worst should happen—I’m sorry, this is terrible of me to say.”

“No it isn’t,” Felix says quietly. “Tell me. Please.” 

Carver rubs his face and his hand lingers there, shielding his expression from view. “I’m scared to love another person who could leave me behind.” 

“Carv.” When he doesn’t respond right away, he feels a gentle hand on his wrist; reluctantly, he drops his hand and stares at Felix, red-eyed and aching. Felix’s dark eyes glint wetly but don’t spill over, and they draw him in, down to lay his head on Felix’s shoulder. “Carver, my darling, I promise I won’t leave you.” 

Carver exhales a damp breath against his neck, shivering. “You can’t promise that.”

“Shh. Yes I can. I absolutely can.” Fingers in his hair, nails against his nape, scraping lightly and tangling to press him closer. Carver slips an arm across Fee’s ribs and clings to him. “I swear I won’t leave you that way. I just need to be more careful with my asthma. My levels aren’t even detectable, you know that, you know the HIV isn’t even an issue. I’m not leaving. Do you understand me, darling?”

Carver nods, too tight in the throat to manage words. 

“But Carver, listen to me. I need you to do the same. It’s not going to be easy all the time, and I need you to be there. I need to know I can rely on you, not as my caretaker, but as my partner. If you can’t, I need to know that right now, before this goes any further.” When Carver’s head comes up at this, Felix looks utterly wrecked; his chest seizes, and he clings to his hand more tightly, for whose sake he’s not entirely sure. “I don’t want to end it here, Carver. But better to do it now, even if it hurts, because later I might not be able to, even if I should.” 

Carver shudders and brings Fee’s hand to his lips to kiss the back of it. The knuckles are dry cracked and smell of antiseptic, but he adores them anyway, and he knows that if he turns away this chance to kiss him every day for the rest of his life, he will always regret it. “You are so, so important to me,” he says against the skin. He can’t open his eyes, but he means every word and he hopes Felix understands. “I want to be what you need. Please, give me another chance.” 

“Darling,” Felix sighs, shaky with relief. “Of course.” 

Carver leans in carefully, but Felix doesn’t pull away, just turns his face toward him so Carver can kiss his cheek. When he pulls away, Felix is pouting. “What?”

“You missed.”

“Oh ha, ha.” But he leans across the bed more fully and brushes their lips together, mindful of the cannula. It’s light and chaste, but his ribs swell anyway. His hands cradle Felix’s between them, thumbs stroking the soft, dry skin as their noses bump, and Felix snorts when the cannula is jarred.

Carver pulls back to apologize, and freezes. There’s someone in the open door, a man sitting in a wheelchair and dressed in loose, comfortable clothing, hands white-knuckled around the wheels and his pale eyes popping with surprise. Carver recognizes him instantly, even in the plain clothing—he has the same nose as Felix, and the same mouth, even gone slack with surprise. Gereon Alexius, Felix’s father. The lovely floaty ball spinning in his chest takes a plunge to sit leaden in his belly. “Er.”

“Dad.” Felix doesn’t sound upset, but he’s holding Carver’s hand rather tightly all of a sudden. Then, out of the blue, “I don’t think you’ve met my boyfriend, Carver Hawke?”

To his credit, Gereon recovers quickly. Carver’s brain is still stalled on the word “boyfriend” when Gereon wheels himself forward and around the foot of the hospital bed to shake his hand: his left, the one not currently being held prisoner by Felix. “Carver, is it? Good to meet you at last. I’ve heard your name before, I believe, but I didn’t realize your involvement with my son was... romantic in nature.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Felix protests, but Carver squeezes his hand reassuringly. Gereon doesn’t sound upset, just—baffled. Which, fair enough.

“It’s fairly recent,” Carver says honestly. “We’ve been taking things slowly—it wasn’t intended as a secret.”

Gereon’s sharp gaze drifts to his son, who returns it steadily. “I’m glad to see my son has your support in this difficult time.”

Carver bows his head, knowing he hasn’t exactly been supportive in the twenty-four hours or so since he found out Felix was in hospital, but Felix doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s been wonderful. More than he knows.”

“That’s good to hear. Well, I was just stopping in to see you off, but I don’t want to intrude—”

“You’re not intruding,” Carver hastens to say. “If anything _I’m_ the one who’s intruding.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gereon scoffs, though he seems pleased by Carver’s response. “Felix, dear boy, I don’t want you worrying yourself over me. Understand? Rest at home, focus on recovery. We can work everything out when you’re feeling better. And if Doctor Erasthenes gives you grief, let me know and I’ll speak to the Dean about his behavior.” He pats his son’s foot through the coverlet. “I need to get back to my room before Nurse Harding realizes I’ve flown the coop, but please take care of yourself. I expect daily reports, and I’ll be asking Dorian for details if I feel you’ve been skimping.” He turns his gaze on Carver, and he feels it like the tickle of a blade at the nape of his neck. “I expect the same from you, Mr. Hawke. My son is ridiculously stubborn, as I’m sure you know, and if he’s not looking after himself I want to know.”

“Yes sir,” Carver says, not sure what else to say. He gets the feeling that he’s just been tasked with the most difficult job in the world, but he doesn’t dare back down from the challenge. Gereon nods once, apparently satisfied.

“Good. I’ve another few days in the stifling place, unfortunately, but when I’m back at home and back on my feet, I hope you’ll join Felix and I for dinner sometime. I would very much like to get to know you better.”

“Yes, of course. I would be… um, delighted.”

“Wonderful. Take care, both of you.” With a soft smile for his son and a stern nod of acknowledgement for Carver, Gereon takes his leave, somehow managing to be utterly regal in spite of his drab attire and the hospital-issue wheelchair. He stops just outside to exchange a few quiet words with Dorian, and Carver turns back to Felix, a bit dazed.

“Is he always like that?”

“Ordering everyone around like King bloody Arthur? Yeah, just about.” He smiles faintly. “Will you stay? Until after I’m discharged?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Of course I do. I’ve… I’ve missed you. I know that’s partly my fault, but still.”

Carver squeezes his hand, then gives in to impulse and kisses his knuckles. “I’ve missed you too.”

“You don’t mind, do you? About what I said before.”

“About…?”

“Introducing you as my boyfriend.” He’s blushing under the cannula, and his grip loosens but Carver refuses to let go. “That’s probably something we should have discussed first.”

“I don’t mind. It’s… it was nice. A surprise, but nice.” He glances up to see Dorian still hovering in the doorway. “Seriously? Can we have a moment?”

“Hmph. Felix, what do you think? Is he forgiven?”

“I think we’ve forgiven each other, more like,” Felix says patiently. “Go get a coffee or something, Dor, and hopefully the discharge papers will be ready by the time you get back.” Dorian grumbles a bit, but takes himself off, and Felix turns back to Carver hopefully. “Will you come with us? I know Dorian will want to help me settle in, but he’s done so much already, and I don’t want you to leave just yet.”

“Of course I will. It’s my job, isn’t it, as your boyfriend?” He rolls the word around his tongue, inordinately pleased. “I’ll do whatever you need.”

“It’s not that complicated—I mean, I’ve done the whole ‘coming home from the hospital’ thing before, and this is nothing like that. But it would be nice to have someone there. If you don’t mind.” He smiles delightedly when Carver kisses his hand again, and he lets his fingers trail through Carver’s hair on the way back down. And just like that, too simply and easily to be real, the fist gripping his chest with fear eases and subsides into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Atripla is a common HIV medication, a lot of the testimonies I read have mentioned that they're on it. Also, the firestone pizza place they go to in Oxford is real and it's fucking delicious.


	22. 22.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver gets the Dad Talk.

 “What do you think?”

Fenris looks up from his phone where he’s sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath him and head propped on one hand. His eyebrows slowly disappear into his fringe as he looks Carver over, and Carver can feel himself droop.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it.”

“‘Terrible’ isn’t really the word I would use. Why are you wearing a tie?”

Carver groans with unnecessary vigor and yanks the tie off in a series of harsh jerks. “Because it’s _dinner_ with Felix’s _dad_ and I have to at least make an effort not to look like an idiot.” The tie is chucked unceremoniously across the room, only to flutter harmlessly to the floor. Carver puts his hands on his hips and scowls at the small quirk of amusement on Fen’s face. “You’re not helping.”

“The lack of tie is an improvement, believe me. Just how formal is this dinner? Surely it doesn’t require a suit jacket.”

“I don’t _know_. Felix said ‘dress casual’ but he’s rich! What does casual mean when you’re rich?”

“Generally a two-piece jogging suit roughly the price of an Audi Coupe, I should think.”

“I hate you,” Carver tells him, and stomps back around the corner. There are three button-down shirts on his bed, all varying shades of cringeworthy pastel that his mother had encouraged him to buy last year for some indeterminable reason. The one he has on is white, and without the tie and suit jacket—which he has finally shrugged out of and left in a slump of cheap navy on the floor—it feels tacky and boring. He tugs it over his head and straightens the vest beneath helplessly. He should have asked Felix to be more specific.

As if his wayward thoughts have summoned him, a faint rap is heard and Fenris shouts, “Your boyfriend’s here! Hope you’re decent!”

“Fuck you,” Carver sing-songs under his breath. The door opens and he can already hear Felix laughing, obviously at Fen’s dramatic little quip. He flops onto the bed and puts his head in his hands. Maybe he can say he’s not feeling well. It wouldn’t entirely be a lie—his belly is churning hard enough he thinks the butterflies have molted and gone straight to caterpillars—but that wouldn’t be fair to Felix.

Footsteps pad around the corner and stop abruptly. When Carver looks up it’s into Felix’s face, which looks to be in the midst of a complicated series of expressions: amusement, horror, fondness, pity. Ugh. “Hey there,” Felix says, tucking it all away behind a polite smile. His eyes are still twinkling wickedly, the berk. “Having trouble?”

He comes forward and cups the back of Carver’s neck, which promptly sends all thoughts of begging off scurrying. “I don’t know what to wear and I don’t have any Audi sweatsuits. Help.”

“Any what? No, never mind, I don’t want to know.” He toys with the freshly-shorn hair at his nape. “Did you get a cut?”

“Yeah.” He hunches forward, embarrassed. “Mum’s idea.”

“It’s... nice.” He’s still smiling, damn him, but not unkindly. “I’m not really sure what this front part is doing, though. Come here.”

He guides Carver to the bathroom like a child, hand in hand, and makes him bend over the sink so he can rinse out the gel monstrosity on his head. When it’s toweled dry, he runs gel-slicked fingers through it lightly, somehow effortlessly coaxing it into... something. Carver peers into the mirror and sighs.

“First of all, _how_. And second, thank you.”

“I could ask the same of you,” Felix says, drying his hands. “You make a terrible gay man, my dear.”

“I know. My only hope is to wait a few years and become a bear.”

“Oh god. Don’t even joke.” Felix takes his face in his hands and looks at him seriously. “Carver, it’s just dinner. Dad’s cooking, he’s probably going to be wearing his awful kiss the cook apron and his ratty old slippers. He’ll want to know all about the woodshop, and whether or not you garden, and if you want to see his exotic beetle collection. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Visions of ten-course meals and sour-faced servants melt away like soap bubbles. Carver sighs. “Right. Sorry. Can you... just tell me what to wear? I think I’ve trampled and sweated on everything I own that’s half-decent.”

When they emerge into the main room a little bit later, Carver dressed in dark-wash jeans and a trim burgundy jumper he forgot he owned, Fenris favors them with a slow, sarcastic applause. Carver makes to tussle him, but Felix clings to his elbow and digs his heels in, so he relents. “This isn’t over, anime boy,” Carver says, pointing at Fenris with the manliest scowl he can conjure. Fenris just pokes his tongue out.

“Have fun. Try not to mix up the soup spoon with the desert fork.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Carver groans, and lets himself be bundled into his jacket and out the door.

He checks his pocket for phone and keys and turns to walk down the hall, but Felix isn’t following. He hovers by the door, face wrinkled with uncertainty, and Carver feels a pang of worry in his chest. “What?”

“Is that what you’re so nervous about?” Felix asks quietly.

“What.” He feels slow and stupid for repeating himself, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Great. The evening’s barely begun and he’s already fucking it up.

“The... soup spoon, and all that rot.”

“I mean. Maybe. A little.” He shrugs, suddenly feeling bulky and awkward in the narrow hallway, with the creaky floorboards and the water stains creeping through the wallpaper. Felix looks about as miserable as he feels.

“I didn’t mean to—I mean, we have money, yes, but I’ve never meant to make you feel uncomfortable about it. Have I?”

“It’s nothing you’ve done,” Carver says, which does absolutely zero to fix things. Okay, Hawke, time to bring out the big guns. He closes the distance between them and takes Felix tentatively into his arms. Felix goes willingly, at least, and that loosens some of the knot that’s been tying itself up in his chest. “Yeah, maybe I feel a little... inadequate sometimes, but that’s not your fault. That’s just me being stupid.”

Felix snorts against his collar. “You’re not stupid, or inadequate. And even if you were, we don’t have desert forks, so no worries there.”

“Oh, good. I’m not nervous anymore, at all.”

Felix sneaks a pinch on his side that provokes an embarrassing squeak. “Hush, you. Now come on, Dad’s very excited to show off his homemade tomato sauce. And why is Fenris at your apartment, anyway?”

“Anders is off somewhere, hither and yon doing good deeds, and he was lonely. I think Peaches likes him better than she likes me,” he grumps, wrapping one arm around Felix’s waist as they wait for the elevator to grinds its way down to the ground floor.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Felix soothes in a placating tone.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m _not_ darling I promise—don’t you dare tickle me, Carver Hawke, I swear to god!”

“’M not,” he mutters, hiding his guilty smile in Felix’s hair. He smells like coconuts and his cinnamon beard oil, which means he’s pulling out all the stops—it twigs a bit of nerves in Carver’s chest, but he ignores it in favor of cuddling his boyfriend closer. Then the elevator screeches to a halt and they spill out, separating only far enough that they’re hand-in-hand instead of arm-in-arm as they make their way to the parking lot. “How’s you dad doing, by the way?”

“Much better. I put an alarm on his phone to remind him to take his medication, and with any luck he won’t need a pacemaker for another five to ten years. Stubborn goat.”

“And you?” Carver can’t help but ask. He releases him to climb into the passenger’s seat of Felix’s car, and when he’s settled Felix is there, leaning across the center console to kiss him softly.

“I’m fine. I promised I would tell you if I was short of breath.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He squeezes his knee and puts the key in the ignition. “I don’t mind you checking in.”

“I just don’t want to be, y’know. Stifling.”

“How’s this. If it gets to that point, I’ll tell you. All right?”

Carver nods. As much as it still feels like he’s feeling his way blindly through this, he’s learning that some things he has to entrust to Felix. It’s difficult, but he’s getting better at it. He thinks. He’s had to, this past month. Felix was back to his old self quickly after being hospitalized, but all that meant is that he was immediately back to looking after his father. Gereon, used to working all the time, was chafing at home with six months of sick leave staring him in the face, and Felix had taken it upon himself to make sure his father didn’t overextend during his recovery—which, in turn, meant Carver had seen very little of him for a while.

But slowly things are returning to normal. Or whatever version of “normal” Carver can expect from the life they’re starting to build together. Starting with dinner at the Alexius townhouse. _Please let me not fuck this up._

Felix keeps the conversation going during the ride, which he’s always been good at—Carver limps along and lets him do the heavy lifting, too busy silently fretting to pay much attention to the topic. When they arrive, he stares up at the whitewashed façade with its crisp black window railings and black lacquered door, complete with a snarling lion for a door knocker, and swallows hard. Felix squeezes his hand. “It’s going to be fine, I promise. I won’t let him roast you at the stake.”

“So you’re promising I’m _not_ on the menu?” he quips, but the joke falls flat.

Felix snorts. “And now you’ve crossed the line from nervous to overdramatic. Come on.” He stands a step above him and straightens his collar before leaning it for a kiss. “Into battle.”

That’s not a very comforting introduction, but Carver has no choice but to follow. The inside is much like the outside, black and white with somber walnut-stained floorboards and sparse décor in elegant shades of cream and grey, without the flair for color and wild patterns that Felix’s apartment has. But the smell of garlic and tomato floats down the hall to the front door, and he can hear a rich baritone aria filtering through the house, which puts him slightly at ease.

“Your Dad likes listening to opera?” he asks as they puts their coats and shoes away. He feels a little bit sacrilegious, walking through the house on sock feet like some kind of plebe, but follows Felix’ lead.

“Listening, yes, but mostly singing,” Felix tells him. He pauses partway down the hall, cocking his head and smiling. “He’s not playing a CD, Carv, that’s him.”

Carver’s jaw drops. “That’s your _dad_? Singing?” Granted, he doesn’t know much about opera, but it’s obvious the singer is quite skilled. Then, abruptly, the music stops.

“Felix? Is that you?”

“Yeah, we’re here,” Felix calls back. He grins and leads the way into the kitchen. “Italian tonight, Dad?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to make it,” Gereon says with a shrug, embracing his son one-armed. The opposite hand holds a spatula coated in red sauce, and he’s wearing a checkered apron over his clothes that has clearly seen a lot of use—as has the rest of the kitchen. It’s a bright and clean-kept room, organized but well-loved, with a fully stocked spice rack near the stove and a collection of pots and pans hanging shinily from the ceiling next to garlic braids and dried bundles of herbs. Carver feels himself relax minutely, even when Gereon’s pale gaze turns to him. “Carver, good to see you again.”

“You too, sir,” he says, accepting a firm handshake.

“Just Gereon, please,” he demurs. “Felix, the wine is breathing on the counter if you wanted to pour two glasses.”

“None for you?” Felix asks lightly, as if he already knows the answer. Gereon grunts something irritably in response that Carver can’t quite hear, and Felix laughs. “Carver, wine?”

“Yes, please.” He would decline, if Gereon is abstaining, but since the bottle is already opened and waiting he might as well. And if his son’s good taste is any indication, Gereon’s wine selection is no doubt impeccable.

“Felix tells me you’re a craftsman, Carver,” Gereon says over his shoulder as he puts the finishing touches on the red sauce bubbling fragrantly in the pot on the stove. “I’ve seen the cabinets in Dorian’s home, they’re truly remarkable work.”

“Thank you.” Carver accepts a glass from Felix and inhales at the rim discretely. Impeccable taste indeed—Varric would no doubt approve.

“He’s an artisan woodworker,” Felix says, smiling proudly at him from over his own wine glass. “And you have your Master Carpenter’s license, don’t you?”

Carver nods, a bit dry-mouthed, and takes a sip of wine. He hates talking about himself, but he has a feeling he’s in for an entire evening of it. “I work for Blackwall and Stroud’s, they’re an artisan carpentry firm here in the city. A small business, but we’re growing steadily.”

“That’s good to hear.” Gereon transfers his sauce to a gorgeous blown-glass serving dish and transports it to the kitchen table, which is already laid—not with glistening china, but with hand-thrown pottery dishes and mismatched silverware. In the center, a simple centerpiece of dried herbs and a sprig of tansy sits in a glass flute, tasteful and inviting. “Please, sit, don’t stand on ceremony. Do you intend to start your own business someday, Carver?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he answers honestly. “I’m happy where I am right now, and my twin sister has only recently gone into remission after a few years fighting leukemia, so my thoughts of the future have more to do with her than with myself.”

“That’s right, Felix mentioned your sister. Bethany, isn’t it?” Gereon inquires, looking between them as they take their seats. “That’s marvelous news that she’s in remission. You have my sincere congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Carver murmurs. The food is passed around—mounds of pasta and sauce, and a few different dishes of sausage and vegetables to be added as desired—and Carver finds his nerves have receded enough that he’s actually hungry. “How’s your own recovery going?”

“Fine,” Gereon says, nose wrinkling. “I despise not being allowed to work, but Felix is like a bloody hound—I pick up a bit of paperwork for an afternoon and he can smell it from across town.”

“Because you’re _not supposed to be working_.” Felix lifts an eyebrow at his father. “You’re lucky I allowed you to make dinner this evening.

“ _Allowed_ ,” Gereon scoffs, but he’s smiling a little. “You’re worse than your mother.”

“It takes a village,” Felix replies lightly. “Speaking of Beth, Carv, has she heard back from the studio in Oxford?”

“She has. They really liked her portfolio, but asked her to apply again next year when she has more recent work.” Carver stabs his sausage with slightly more vigor than required. “Which is utter bollocks. Sorry,” he adds, glancing at Gereon who waves him off. “She’s incredibly talented, and it’s not her fault she was too ill these past few years to make very much.”

“Is she very disappointed?” Felix asks.

“I think she’s more upset than she’s letting on, but she’s determined to be stoic about it. Bloody stubborn. But she’s more determined than ever to make things, so I suppose it’s not all bad. She’s commandeered a corner at the woodshop, and she’s been working a little with a friend who has a forge.”

“A _forge_?” Gereon echoes, eyebrows climbing to his hairline. It’s so eerily similar to the incredulous expressions Felix so often levels his way that Carver has to hide a smile in his wine. “What sort of work is she doing?”

“Sculpture, mostly. Big sculpture. The bigger the better.” Carver shrugs. “Maybe it’s for the best—the place in Oxford didn’t have a big enough area for her to do her metalworking.”

He feels safe, talking about Bethy—bragging, really—and the transition to talking about himself is easier that way. He tells Gereon about growing up in Canada, skirting the topic of his father, which Gereon makes easier by chiming in about his ex-wife’s installation art and perhaps Bethany would like to meet her sometime? Felix enthusiastically agrees, and promises to arrange a meeting, and by the time all the details are sorted out they’ve cleaned their plates and Gereon is apologizing about the lack of dessert.

“Don’t worry about it,” Felix says sternly. “The meal was bad enough, you shouldn’t be moving around the kitchen so much, chopping and sautéing and whatnot.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Felix, it’s the easiest recipe in the world. And don’t even think about cleaning up, I have a dishwasher.”

“Then it’ll be quick and easy to load, won’t it?” Felix asks lightly, already rising to collect their plates. Carver moves to help, but Gereon traps him with a light hand on the back of his wrist.

“Carver, I was wondering if I could show you the house. There’s some old woodwork that I believe you might find interesting.”

“Of course,” Carver says, thinking _here it comes._

“That’s the most obvious ploy I’ve ever seen, Dad,” Felix says over his shoulder as he fills the sink with hot water. “Go on then, try and scare him off. I promise it won’t work.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gereon scoffs, but his mouth is twitching in a bristly smile as he stands and nods to the hallway for Carver to follow.

Strangely, as soon as they’re alone, all his anxiety fades, and he finds himself standing taller and walking straighter, keeping a sedate, steady pace at Gereon’s side. He doesn’t move like he was in hospital a few weeks ago, but he does walk with deliberation, and Carver does his best to match his steps as Gereon takes him on a brief tour of the living areas of the townhouse.

“Now,” he says at last, pausing in the upstairs library near a great oaken desk—devoid of paperwork, Carver notes, but piled with books on a variety of esoteric subjects, exotic beetles being one of them—“Forgive me for being predictable, but Felix wasn’t altogether wrong. I wanted to speak to you privately, man to man, about my son.”

“Yes, sir. Gereon,” he amends, lifting his chin. He’s a few inches taller than the older man, but he still feels incredibly small and insignificant under the weight of that icy stare.

“Felix is the most important thing in the world to me. I’ve spoken to him about you and it’s clear that you make him happy; I’ll be entirely honest, I’ve also spoken to Dorian and Cullen, and they have a great deal of good to say about you. But no one is perfect, and no relationship is perfect. Which is why I want to know, right now from your own lips, that you intend to do right by him.”

Carver swallows, dry-mouthed but certain. “I do, sir. I care about him very much—I love him. And I want him to be happy.” His voice fails him after this small speech, but Gereon seems satisfied.

“Good. I thought that might be the case, but a father likes to know these things concretely. He has told you of his illness, I understand.” At Carver’s silent nod, he finally turns his gaze away and looks instead to his desk, where a small framed photograph, yellowed with age, features a much younger Gereon with a boy of seven or eight perched on his shoulders—Felix, with a head of wild curls and a beaming smile. “I know I may seem overprotective to you, but understand that I am being as lenient as I can. I saw him hurt once, badly. I will not allow it to happen twice. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Carver says, more steadily this time. “Absolutely.”

“Good.” He turns back to him and smiles, and there is an edge of sorrow to it that Carver has seen too many times before in his own mother’s face. “Then we understand one another.”

Footsteps on the stairs herald Felix’s arrival, and Gereon picks up the photograph, passing it Carver’s way. “He was always quick to smile as a boy. Inherited that from his mother.”

“Not much has changed, then,” Carver says, examining it more closely. He can smell the cinnamon-y waft of Felix’s approach, and he holds out an arm for him to step into. “You were a cute kid,” he says, handing back the picture.

“Thank you. I’m just glad he hasn’t broken out the truly terrible pictures in our old family album,” Felix quips, leveling a stern look at his father. If he knows what they had been speaking of a minute ago, he doesn’t show it, only leans harder into Carver’s side until he succumbs and presses a kiss to his temple. “Are you done terrorizing him?”

“For the time being,” Gereon says equably. “In case you were worried, I approve.”

Felix squeezes Carver’s waist affectionately, grinning up at him. “I knew you would.”

The rest of the evening is mercifully less stressful, and by the end of it Carver is laughing and joking with Gereon like they’ve known each other far longer than just an evening. They finally depart when Felix is having trouble stifling his yawns. Gereon sees them out, shaking Carver’s hand and kissing his son’s cheek, and when the door has closed behind them Felix pauses on the steps, hand in hand, and looks at him expectantly.

“Well?”

Carver ducks his head and looks at him through the resulting flop of hair. “Well, what?”

“Well, what did you think? It wasn’t terrible, right?”

“No, I suppose not,” Carver agrees gruffly. Felix laughs at him and threads their arms together.

“I feel like I’ve hardly seen you at all this week. What are you doing right now?”

“Right now I’m getting into a car with my boyfriend—ouch! Okay, right now I was planning on going home and being lazy before bed.” He hesitates, feeling the weight of the question on his tongue like a palpable thing. “Did you want to join me?”

Felix puts his key in the ignition and pauses. “For bed?”

“Um. Yeah, if you wanted. Not sex, just sleeping.” He holds his breath, amazed at himself for even asking. Normally he doesn’t need to ask, the steps are laid out for him, but this time he wants to be absolutely sure.

“I’d like that,” Felix says after a while. “Do you mind if I stop off at my place first? Grab a few things?”

“’Course not,” he replies, letting out his breath as slowly and silently as possible. _He said yes. I’m going to be able to hold him in my arms tonight, show him how I feel._ If the words won’t come, still stuck in his craw like a coward, at least he can use body language.

///

“What are you _wearing_?”

Felix looks down at himself, caught off guard as he exits Carver’s bathroom later that evening. “Uh. My pyjamas?”

“Why do you look like you’re about to mount an expedition to the Antarctic?” 

Felix sticks his tongue out at him. “I get cold when I sleep. I’m not a hibernating polar bear, unlike some people.”

Carver wraps him up in his arms and nibbles his ear gently, growling low in his throat. Felix is embarrassed to admit that it’s... kind of hot. “Fine. Wear your snowsuit-jammies. But I guarantee you’re going to be toasty warm when you wake up—I have it on good authority that sleeping with me is like sleeping with a human-shaped hot water bottle.” He pulls back, to Felix’s disappointment, and goes to turn down the bed. “Any rules?”

“What do you mean?”

“Boundaries, I guess I should say. Side of the bed, cuddling yes or no, et cetera.” 

“Side doesn’t really matter to me. Ummm.” His eyes are glued to the flex of Carver’s arse beneath his boxer-briefs, and it takes a moment to get his brain back on track. “Cuddling is fine, but when I sleep I tend to curl up in a ball, so don’t be offended if you wake up and I’m on the other side of the mattress. I breathe weird when I sleep, sometimes. I dunno, I guess that’s about it.” 

“I am a chronic cuddler,” Carver admits, straightening back up. The hem of his tee shirt has folded up on itself, exposing a bit of smooth, pale hip; Felix curls his fingers into fists to avoid touching it. “But shove me off when you get tired of it.” He crawls into bed and wiggles down into the pillows like a huge, freckled caterpillar preparing its cocoon. Felix smiles at the mental image and climbs gingerly in next to him. 

“Hey there,” Carver says, grinning. He’s so adorably pleased with himself that Felix can’t help it—he snuggles in close and kisses the tip of his nose.

“Hi.” 

Carver slings an arm over his waist and reels him in for a proper kiss, shallow and tasting of toothpaste. It’s over too soon, but Felix doesn’t pursue him. He knows his limits. If he kisses Carver’s sweet mouth for too much longer, he’s going to be shucking his pyjamas and throwing his boundaries out the window, and he knows he’s not ready for that. 

“Goodnight,” he says softly, fingers curled in the back of Carver’s shirt. He searches his face for signs of disappointment, but nothing surfaces—just eyes heavy-lidded with sleep, and a faint blush across his freckled nose that Felix wants to kiss. 

“‘Night, Fee. Sleep well.” He kisses his brow, quick and soft, and settles down into the blankets. Thus released, Felix turns and lets his back curve against Carver’s muscled arm. After a moment or two of shuffling, he feels Carver give in and snake his arm around his waist, pressing his chest to Felix’s spine. “This okay?”

“Mm. Yes.” Carver wasn’t lying—he’s _very_ warm, radiating heat like a furnace, and Felix can feel himself unfurling like a hothouse flower under the sheets. He lets his eyes fall shut. He sleeps. 

He expects to wake a few times during the night—first time sharing a bed, and all that—but he doesn’t. Instead he wakes with the first watery light of morning, around his usual time, and finds that he isn’t cold at _all_. In fact, he can feel his fingers and toes, which is a miracle in itself. He’s hardly moved all night, still bundled against Carver’s chest like a favorite toy, and their legs are tangled together in some magical, mysterious way that _hasn’t_ cut all the circulation off the lower half of his body.

He shift a little, delighting in the warm, sturdy pressure of Carver’s arm around his waist, and feels a slight stirring behind him in response. Awake, then, or very near. He smiles and breathes deep—the bed smells like clean laundry and Carver, and a little bit like himself. Like them.

“Where have you been all my life?” he croaks.

Carver rumbles sleepily against his back and snugs the fit of his arm around his ribs. “Waiting for you.”

The words are so unexpectedly sincere and unselfconscious that Felix just lays there in stunned silence for a minute or two. When he finally coaxes his body into turning around, Carver is barely visible under the mound of blankets, his nose poking out of the sheet and his eyes soft and smiling. “Sorry for taking so long.”

“’S okay. Worth it.” Carver burrows close and tucks his head under Felix’s chin, and Felix lets his hand snake up to pet at his sleep-mussed hair. “Mmm.”

“Are you always so adorable and cuddly in the mornings?” Felix murmurs.

“Nnnnope. I’m a huge grump.” He lips at his throat, rubbing back and forth in a haphazard kiss. “So don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” Felix admits. He insinuates his warm toes in between Carver’s ankles.

Carver grunts. “Warm?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Told you.” Carver is smiling against his neck. He shifts a little and adjusts his arm so that he can rub Felix’s back high up between his shoulder blades, right where the griffon prances proudly beneath his shirt. “This okay?”

“Very much so.” He’s tired enough that the touch is only comforting. He’s not exactly soft in his briefs, which isn’t surprising considering how warm he is and how long it’s been since he’s shared a bed with anyone, but he doesn’t feel the pressure to pursue it. Instead he’s content to lay there, enveloped in the warmth and the smell of Carver as the light behind the blinds grows steadily brighter.

Until something changes. He can feel the shift like a palpable weight in the air. Carver’s hand slows, lightens, drawing little dizzying spirals across his skin, and Felix finally returns the touch with a hand to Carver’s stubbled jaw. He makes a low, scratchy sound in his throat and tips his head up.

“I have morning breath.”

“That’s okay,” Felix says softly. “So do I.”

The kiss is almost entirely chaste, to begin with. Their lips are dry with sleep, their breath a little sour. Felix wriggles a bit closer, and Carver’s hand slips down his back, following the groove of his spine to tease his sacrum. He shifts again; their tongues slide together, tentative. In his borrowed pyjamas he can feel his erection becoming harder, more insistent, a hot, heavy weight resting against his thigh and dangerously close to Carver’s hip.

A rough noise manifests in his chest, not quite a moan but more than a sigh, and Carver grunts softly in response and sucks his tongue into his mouth. Felix inhales sharply. His blood pounds in his temples and in his groin, and Carver’s mouth isn’t sour anymore—it tastes like nothing in particular, just slick warmth and the electrifying scrape of teeth. He clutches Carver’s shoulder and kisses back deeply, aggressively, as a single thought manifests with perfect clarity: he is desperately turned on, _aching_ for him, arousal skidding through his body like tyres on a rain-slick track, and for a single wild, brilliant moment he wants fiercely to take hold of it.

They seem to arrive at the same conclusion in tandem, but Carver breaks first. He pulls away, homing back in when Felix instinctively pursues, kissing him again with soft, shallow restraint. And then they part, chests heaving as they fight for air mere inches from each other in the field of rumpled bedding.

Carver clears his throat. “If we’re going to stop,” he rasps, “I need to get out of bed now. Because I really, really want you, but we agreed to take it slow. So. I’m going to go take a shower, alone, and then I’m going to make coffee and breakfast. You can stay here a little while longer and do… whatever it is you need to do. And then we can eat together, and spend the day however we like.” He smiles faintly, blue eyes crisp as a new apple at such close range. “Is that okay with you?”

Swallowing hard, Felix nods. Carver rubs his thumb briefly against his lower lip, dry and slightly salty, and drags himself out of bed with a rueful smile. Felix can see why—he’s tenting his pajama bottoms rather impressively. He closes his eyes and flips the covers over his head before he does something foolish, and stays that way until he hears the shower kick in.

For a few stretched-out moments, he considers reaching beneath his pyjamas and… take care of things. But making a mess of Carver’s bedding isn’t a level he’s ready for yet, so he throws off the covers and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, letting the cooler air wash over him and soothe his feverish cheeks. Under the heather grey jersey, his prick is making a valiant effort at staying hard. To avoid looking at it, Felix drags the comforter into his lap and just breathes, trying to get a hold of himself.

By the time the shower shuts off, he’s mostly soft and is feeling much calmer. He can hear Carver puttering around in the bathroom, the clink of porcelain and the rush of the faucet, and then he comes out into the bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist. _Holy mother of god._

He’s even more muscular than Felix remembers from the few times he’s caught peripheral glances in the locker room at the Knight Club, with sharply defined hip bones and a cluster of surprisingly light-colored hair on his chest and down his soft belly. His shoulders are stupidly broad and thickly freckled, still scattered with droplets of water, and yeah, okay, he’s completely hard again. Fuck.

“Oh,” Carver says, stopping short. His pale skin betrays him with a vibrant red blush that springs to life so quickly Felix feels a little better about his runaway libido. “Sorry, I thought you were in the kitchen.”

“No, I’m sorry. I was, uh, waiting for the shower.” He finally manages to drag his eyes away and shuts them firmly. “I won’t look if you want to dress.”

His only answer is the wet thump of the towel hitting the floor. Felix inhales raggedly as he listens to Carver moving about the room, opening and closing drawers and pulling on his clothes. Then there’s a stirring of warmer air, and he feels a damp kiss against his forehead. “Water’s hot.” And he’s gone.

Felix drags in a deep breath and goes to take a shower. 

The bathroom is still steamy, suffused with the pungent smell of tea tree oil. Felix strips quickly and turns on the water. He adjusts the temperature before stepping in, and the wash of delicious heat over his body sends another pang of arousal through him. He braces one hand against the wall and looks down, curling his toes against the shower floor. His belly is heaving in time with his breaths and his cock juts out, fully hard, aching to be touched. He wonders if Carver did this: stood here with the water streaming over  him and brought himself some measure of relief. If he jerked himself off quickly, just trying to get it over with, or if he took his time, played with the head and reached down to cup his balls in one enormous palm. Carver really does have beautifully large hands. What just one of those talented, mobile fingers would feel like inside of him… He chokes and wraps his fist around his cock. _Fuck_ _it_.

He buries his face in his forearm and jerks his hand with slow, perfunctory strokes, trying to separate himself from the molasses-slow decadence of waking up in Carver’s arms—but it’s no use. All he can smell is tea tree and himself, thick and salty in his nose, and all he can see in his mind is Carver standing in this very spot, broad shoulders rippling, belly clenching as he brings himself to orgasm.

Felix gives a low cry into his arm and lets himself go. He can’t hear the spatter of his own cum over the hiss of the shower, but he cracks an eye open and watches the evidence swirl harmlessly down the drain. When he’s got his breath back, he reaches for the shampoo.

Sufficiently washed and rinsed a few minutes later, he steps out of the shower with a towel over his shoulders and stops short. In the toothbrush caddy is a third toothbrush, new, with a little bit of tape stuck to it with ‘FELIX’ printed on in neat square letters. He grins like a fool and opens the mirror to hunt down toothpaste.

Back in the bedroom, still humming pleasantly with hormones, he finds a fresh pair of joggers and a thick, knobbly jumper that has Bethy written all over it. On top there’s a note: _take your pick of my pants drawer, everything’s clean :P_. Felix snorts and goes to poke around.

Carver prefers boxer briefs, apparently, which Felix approves of, mostly in boring shades of grey and black. There’s a few pairs shoved to the back with designs that are, well… gay, to be honest. Rainbows and pride flags and such, which Felix puts down to gag gifts and “special occasions.” Smirking, he selects a pair with rainbow smileys on and finishes getting dressed, making sure to leave the elastic sticking out of the waistband of the joggers. The jumper hangs low enough to cover it, but one should always be prepared.

Carver is in the kitchen, as promised, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and humming as he whisks eggs into a pale yellow blur. Bacon is spitting in the pan and coffee is brewing on the counter, and the whole scene is so domestic that Felix lurks for a little while in the doorway just to watch. When he’s had his fill, he pads into the room and goes straight for the coffee—he doesn’t trust himself to go to Carver first, orgasm or no orgasm.

“I know you like it strong,” Carver says conversationally, not at all surprised to see him, “but I can make another pot if it’s not strong enough.”

Felix pours himself a cup and inhales the rich, fragrant steam. “Mmm. It’s perfect.”

“Good.”

And then he can’t resist anymore. Coffee still cradled in both hands, he sidles across to where Carver is holding court over the stovetop and leans against his side. Carver lifts his arm instantly and draws him in close, turning to press a kiss to his damp hair.

“How was your shower?”

Felix blushes. “Good.” Should he confess? Or just... tease? “Very relaxing.”

“Is that so.” Carver is smiling, by the sound of him, but Felix just stares stupidly into his mug. “So was mine, as a matter of fact.” His broad hand slides up Felix’s back over his jumper to thumb at the sensitive nape. “You found everything all right?”

“Yes. Thanks for the toothbrush.” He looks up, and Carver is so obviously pleased with himself that Felix has to kiss him. Just once. Just a little peck—a long one, with open mouths and hot breaths and tongue, and—

“Dammit,” Carver groans against his lips. “You’re bloody irresistible, you know that?”

“Sorry.” He licks the taste of Carver off his lips and takes a sip of coffee to swallow it down.

“No, don’t be. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” He leans down and smooches the side of his head, quick and fond and totally at odds with the kiss they just shared. “Pour me a cup, please? Breakfast is almost ready.”


	23. 23.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: alcohol consumption, mild sexual content while inebriated.

At the tail-end of March, Felix turns in the last draft of his thesis and walks the handful of blocks from the university to the woodshop with a spring in his step. It’s unseasonably warm, with an on-again off-again drizzle that does little to dampen his mood. _I’m finally free_.

Doctor Erasthenes had been surprisingly good about it, congratulating him with a gruff handshake and a promise to follow up with him soon—which Felix knows is a well-meaning but boldfaced lie. With a few hundred undergraduates and a small handful of grad students working furiously to complete the encroaching end-of-term projects, Felix likely won’t hear back from him until late May, and that’s a generous estimate. He’s heard horror stories of grad mentors turning back thesis projects as late as January of the next year. But he’s not worried about that right now; Doctor E. can take as long as he damn well pleases, as far as Felix is concerned. Even with the looming pressure of _career choices_ on the horizon, at least he's done with the bloody thing, and he's going to enjoy the grace period while it lasts. 

Bethany is sitting behind the counter when he steps inside Blackwall and Stroud’s, sketching something into an enormous notepad and humming to herself. She waves distractedly to him when he enters, and he passes by with a nod of greeting—the muse is hard at work, it seems, so he won’t disturb her. He’s sorry that he’ll no longer be able to buy his coffee from her at Harold’s, since she quit the place officially when she enrolled in classes again for the next semester at Calenhad, but this is a far better situation for her. She gets to make money _and_ work on her projects with fairly free rein of the workshop, and has started helping Stroud teach metalworking classes in the evenings. Privately, Felix things she’s happier here than she would have been in Oxford, but he decides to keep that opinion to himself.

Poking his head inside the workshop itself, he finds it deserted but for Carver, who is bent over the table saw as it screams through a two-by-four with ease. He’s got goggles on, which pushes up the longer flop of hair on the top of his head into a strange sort of curlicue, and between them and the noise he hasn’t noticed Felix. Through the door to the back office, Felix can see Stroud bent over paperwork, but for all intents and purposes, they’re alone. Smiling, Felix boosts himself up onto a worktable to wait out the noise.

The two-by-four splits in half suddenly. Carver retrieves the pieces and turns around, catching sight of him as the table saw whines down to silence. He grins and sets them down on one of the counters, pushing his goggles up into his unruly hair, damp with sweat from the day’s work.

“Hey there, handsome,” he says, coming over to bestow a light kiss on Felix’s lips. He smells like clean sweat and sawdust, and Felix drags him back in with a hand to his shirtfront.

“Hard at work, I see,” he says against his lips. He lets his knees fall open just a little, and Carver leans against the table in between them, hand braced loosely at the counter’s edge.

“Just another day in the office. There’s a lot of sawdust in here, you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine, for a few more minutes. Besides, I have good news.” He plucks the goggles off Carver’s head and sets them aside, pushing the resultant flop of hair back from his forehead. “I handed in my thesis today.”

“The final draft? Fee, that’s spectacular!”

“Done and dusted,” he says cheerfully, and winds his arms loosely around Carver’s shoulders. He still isn’t used to how broad he is, how sturdy and compact. They’ve shared a bed a few times in the month or so since the last time, and though it has yet to progress to something more, he loves the feeling of Carver slumbering against him, a coal stove in human form for him to cuddle up to at night.

“I think that means a celebration is in order,” Carver says decidedly, touching their noses together. Felix sneaks another kiss.

“I think so too.”

Grinning, Carver kisses him back more soundly, and this time it lingers, his hands grazing Felix’s thighs lightly before coming to rest at his hips. God, but Carver has enormous hands. Felix is no waif, but Carver’s fingers span the width of his waist easily, thumbs a scant few inches apart where they rub slow circles on his belly. Felix hums and arches forward, and Carver rewards him by tightening his hold and pulling him closer until he’s perched at the very edge of the workbench, his heels hooked around the back of Carver’s calves and his palms flat against Carver’s broad chest for stability. For all their closeness, Carver keeps the kiss shallow; he barely tongues the inside of Felix’s lower lip before withdrawing, and Felix huffs in protest, squirming close enough to press their bodies together for one brief, dizzying instant.

“Carv,” he breathes, trying not to pout. Carver’s eyes are wide, as if shocked at his own boldness, and the pupils swell black as Felix watches. Felix catches his breath in his chest and bites his lower lip tactically. “Why did you stop?”

Carver’s grip tightens and he exhales lowly, breath smelling like he tastes: lemon-candies and sawdust. “I didn’t… I wasn’t expecting…”

“What? To sweep me off my feet?” Felix cups his face in one hand, thumb resting comfortably on the ridge of his cheekbone. “Because you’re really awfully good at that.”

Slow, exploratory, Carver eases one hand up his back and down again in smooth strokes, and Felix arches into it like a cat. “So this is okay, then?” he clarifies, a little bit nervously in spite of the surety of his touch. Felix hums and nods, drawing his face toward him and hooking his other hand in the slack collar of Carver’s flannel.

“Really, really okay.”

“Good.” With Felix’s hands on him, he doesn’t hesitate anymore, just leans in and claims Felix’s mouth for his own. He isn’t quite so gentle this time—his hands pin Felix in place even as they stroke his body through the fabric of his jumper, and his tongue invades his mouth roughly, tearing a groan from the depths of Felix’s chest. Felix presses even closer in response and manages to hook one leg around Carver’s sturdy waist, and _then_ he’s practically in Carver’s lap as Carver snakes his sturdy workman’s hands under his arse and lifts him to the very edge of the table. Felix whimpers, but it’s lost to Carver’s lips, dissolving somewhere in the heat of their mouths.

“Fuck,” Carver growls suddenly, tearing away and burying his face in Felix’s neck instead, lips moving softly against his overheated skin. “God, Fee, you’re fucking _edible_.”

“Mmnh. _Carv_.”

Carver’s nibbling on his neck now, tasting the curve of his throat and licking the dip of his collarbone, just visible beneath the fold of his scarf. Felix tilts his head, spine as flimsy as string, and knots his fingers in Carver’s shirt. Carver sucks a small, vibrant bruise under the collar of his shirt and soothes it with a kiss when Felix whimpers. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Magnificent, in fact.” Felix sighs as Carver squeezes his arse, the movement grinding him forward against Carver’s firm stomach. “God, that feels good.”

Carver drops his forehead to Felix’s shoulder with a strangled groan. “Dammit, Fee, you’re making it impossible for me to stop.”

“Then don’t stop,” he breathes, arching forward again. Their groins are a little offset, but he doesn’t need to feel Carver’s dick through his jeans to know he’s desperately turned on: his face is flushed, and when he presses forward to kiss him again, his mouth is hot and hungry. Felix is sure he’s going to melt into a puddle right there on the worktop, pinned  between it and Carver’s delicious weight, suffocating under the sweet, hot pressure of his kisses.

From the back office, the phone rings shrilly, and Carver jerks back with an adorable little gasp that Felix can feel against his cheek. “Fuck. I forgot Jean was still here.”

Felix sniggers—he can’t help it—and Carver growls and kissed him again, rough but far too brief. “Then take me out,” he suggested breathlessly. “Take me to dinner, Carver Hawke, like a gentleman.”

To his surprise, Carver steps away, though he can’t seem to stop touching him entirely—his hands linger on Felix’s spread knees even as he turns his face away, red-faced with more than arousal. “I’m sorry. I’ve been really rude, haven’t I, just… springing on you like that.”

Felix drags his eyes away from the bulge in Carver’s jeans and his mind out of the gutter, and tries to force the surging need in his veins to subside, with mixed results. “Carver, no. It was fantastic. Honestly.” He grabs Carver’s hands to pull him back in and nuzzles the side of his face until Carver acquiesces to a damp, shallow kiss that curls a fist inside Felix’s ribcage. “I just… well. If we stay here any longer I’m going to seriously injure myself, so. Maybe it would be good to get up and about, get the blood flowing to, er, other areas.”

Carver’s face crumples into a silent giggle. “Yeah, that’s… not a bad idea. Um.” His eyes flick down to the package Felix is now toting around in his jeans. “Sorry about that. Here.”

For a single, hilarious instant, Felix thinks he’s going to unzip him and jack him off right there to fix the problem. But instead he puts his enormous hands around Felix’s waist and lifts him gently off the table. Standing nose to nose, they’re almost of a height, with Carver a few teeny-tiny inches over him. Felix just has to tilt his face up a bit and it’s easy for Carver to lean down and kiss him. Their tongues flirt briefly, but it’s mostly chaste, and it helps Felix’s heart to stop racing quite so furiously as he adjusts himself in his jeans and gets his breath back.

“Better?” Carver murmurs against his chin. He seems fascinated with Felix’s beard, which he keeps short and neatly trimmed unlike Carver’s thicker, unrulier facial hair, and Felix bites back a giggle when he nibbles lightly on his chin.

“Urgh, stop. Your mouth is too tempting.”

“Sorry,” Carver says, not sounding sorry at all. He gives Felix’s bottom a final pat before withdrawing for the coatrack. “God, am I glad I let Varric talk me into a longer coat.”

“It looks good on you.” Felix reaches up to straighten the collar, and it turns into his hands flat on Carver’s chest and Carver’s tongue in his mouth in the space of a few seconds.

Finally Carver pulls back with a groan of frustration. “Okay. Time to stop. What time is it? Did you want to get supper?”

“Can you just leave?” Felix asks, craning his head to see into the back room. Stroud is still at his desk, chatting gruffly on the phone and scribbling something into his appointment ledger. “I mean, are you done for the day?”

“Done enough. Let me just clean up a minute.” He strokes the nape of Felix’s neck, his touch almost firm enough to be a massage. “Go ahead and wait out on the floor, I’ll be right out.”

Felix acquiesces, though it’s hard to drag himself away. _Just fuck the man and get it over with,_ says Dorian’s voice in his mind, and he has to admit the thought is tempting. Very tempting. Carver has been nothing but gentlemanly since they started dating, and gradually Felix has grown more and more comfortable with the physical aspects of their relationship. But as for the next step, well… he knows it’s up to him, and it’s a nerve-wracking idea, having to use _actual words_ to tell Carver he wants him in his bed. Well, he’s had him in his bed, but always dressed and always (almost) perfectly proper, barring the occasional early morning grope and snog.

Bethany is more alert this time when he enters the main room, giving him a smug little smile and a _you’re looking well_. He returns the sentiment glibly and spends a few minutes perusing the show floor before Carver returns, a great deal less flustered and coated in scrapings of sawdust. Felix pats him down, tsking, and Carver submits to his fussing with a soft expression that makes Felix want to pin him down and fuck his brains out.

 _Easy, tiger_ , he thinks, fitting their hands together when he’s deemed him fit for public consumption. “Where to, my dear?”

“Why are you asking me? It’s your day.”

Felix chews his lower lip nervously. “I’m a little tired to go out. Maybe takeaway and a film, my place?”

“Perfect.”

“But I definitely do want to do something later; maybe this weekend? There’s a club Dorian’s been raving about for the past month or so and I haven’t had a chance to go. I think it’s called the Wicked Hart?”

“Wicked Hearts,” Carver corrects, nodding. “I know it. I used to go there a lot when I was in uni—it was kind of seedy then, but I hear it’s improved. Dorian’s recommendation is pretty much a guarantee of that, actually.” They step out of the shop hand in hand, bidding Bethany a distracted farewell. “Shall we get a bit of a crew together then, make a night of it?”

“Yes _please_.” Felix grins at the prospect—a night of splurging on cocktails and sweaty, underdressed dancing with his boyfriends sounds like the perfect way to celebrate.

/

For dinner, Felix decides on a little Greek place halfway between the woodshop and his apartment building, and they pick it up on the way, walking hand-in-hand as dusk falls and the rainclouds give up entirely, rolling away to reveal a powder-pale lavender sky touched with evening’s first shades of ashy blue. He’s feeling a bit nostalgic as they hike up the back stairs and let themselves in to the apartment, and he goes around opening all the windows to let in the chilly spring air, still tangy with snow in the back of his throat. Carver laughs at him but busies himself with dishing up their dinner, and when the flat is aired out to Felix’s liking he shuts all but the westernmost window and bundles up under an embroidered blanket with Carver at his side, a warm bulwark against the cold.

“You’re ridiculous,” Carver tells him through a mouthful of spanakopita, and gets the crumbs on his beard kissed away for his trouble.

By the time the leftover have been put away the sun has well set, and they haven’t even bothered pretending to put on a movie. Instead Carver goes to close the window, and when he comes back Felix has commandeered the entire couch for himself, smirking at him from his pile of throw pillows. Carver grabs one out from under him in retaliation and he squawks in protest, reaching up with flailing arms when he climbs on top of him, but he only succeeds in grabbing his collar and pulling him down for a kiss.

“If you were trying to get rid of me,” Carver says against his lips, “this isn’t the way to do it.”

“Shhh. My methods are devious and completely altruistic.” He slides his fingers up into Carver’s hair, grinning when Carver bops a kiss onto the tip of his nose. “Come here.”

With a grunt of assent, Carver adjusts himself so that he’s a warm, heavy weight sprawled against his side. In spite of the restrictive position, Felix doesn’t feel claustrophobic. Maybe his lips have something to do with it—the brush of his beard against Felix’s cheek is electrifying. He tips his chin up and sighs when his mouth moves to his throat, gentle, the slight nip of teeth hardly more than a flicker of electricity moving through his veins. Felix hums and pushes his fingers into Carver’s silky hair, shifting against him. He likes pressing back against the weight, feeling it pin him down, enfold him; even when Carver moves down a little, so that he can burrow kisses under the loose collar of his shirt, it’s comforting and arousing in equal measure.

“Is this okay?” Carver whispers, heavy in the silence. His fingers have found the hem of Felix’s shirt, and one thumb descends to rub slight circles on his hipbone. A hot shiver of anticipation floods through him—he doesn’t know how far this is going to go, but he wants to find out.

“Yeah.” He cups Carver’s face in one hand, rubbing his palm against the soft bristle of his beard. “Please.”

Carver’s eyes grow heavy-lidded, and he pushes his hand up, flat along his belly and ribs to his chest. With his shirt rucked up under his armpits, Felix watches him boost himself up just enough to drop a kiss onto his sternum. His lips are soft and warm, his beard softly scraping as he works his way up to a collarbone, tongue flicking out, nose pressed into the folds of his shirt. Felix makes a small noise at the cold left behind on the wet patch, and Carver lets his shirt slide back down a little.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, smiling, and he nuzzles just beneath his left pectoral. He moves slowly, asking with his eyes, but Felix makes no move to stop him as he brushes his lips almost chastely across his nipple. His belly tightens, and he scrapes the nape of Carver’s neck with his fingernails. Carver hums, licks with the flat of his tongue, swirling, then closes his lips and sucks lightly. Felix hisses. He’s throbbing in his jeans, and part of him longs to reach down and adjust himself to sit more comfortably, or maybe pop open his zip to give himself more room, but his hands don’t want to move from Carver’s neck and shoulders.

Carver’s mouth continues its journey, wending a meandering path across his chest and down, following the slight groove in the center of his belly. He’s very proud of that groove—he worked hard for it. He gasps and presses his head back into the arm of the couch as Carver scrapes his teeth leisurely just above his navel. He’s migrated farther south by now, far enough that his chest is level with Felix’s hips. He’s sure Carver can feel his erection through his jeans, even though he’s being careful not to weigh him down too badly, and a part of him wants very much to rock up, relieve some of the building pressure and maybe take hold of Carver’s hair, push his head down, down, until his mouth is right where he needs it most.

It’s almost as if he can read his mind. Carver hums and sucks a bright, seething mark just down and to the right of his bellybutton, and Felix shudders, suddenly overwhelmed. _Wait wait wait._ “Carv…”

“Mm?” He looks up from contemplating his button and zip, lips cherry-red. “All right, sweet?”

“Can you, um…” He reaches up and toys with his shirt, torn between pulling it down and pulled it over his head. “Can you come here? I’m cold.”

“Of course.” No hesitation, no disappointment, he lifts himself up and crawls up the couch to burrow along his side like they were before. He tugs Felix’s shirt down without being asked. “All right?”

“Yes,” he whispers, embarrassed at how relieved he is that Carver didn’t press him. “I’m sorry—”

“No, shhh. Don’t worry, sweetheart, there’s nothing to be sorry for. I, uh.” He bows his head and laughs a little, at himself, at them—a release of nervous tension that wafts across Felix’s neck like a hot summer wind. “I might have an oral fixation.”

“I had no idea,” Felix murmurs teasingly, and the last of the tension that sprang on him so suddenly dissolves. He brushes his fingers through the hair falling over Carver’s forehead and he pushes into it, reveling in the tickle of sensation that ripples through him at the fond touch. “Kiss me?”

“Mm, of course.”

He kisses his mouth just as tenderly as he’d kissed his body, slow and shallow and soft like he’s memorizing every contour. Their tongues flick together briefly, tasting, and Carver reluctantly withdraws to tip their foreheads together. Felix sighs. “You’re marvelous at that.”

Carver smiles—this close, all Felix can see are the crinkles around his eyes, and fondness stabs him deeply in the chest. “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.” He kisses the tip of his nose. “I should probably think about getting on home, shouldn’t I. Not that—” He grimaces, searching for the right words. “I don’t mean, I’m ducking out because we’re not going to have sex, I just… it’s getting late, and I can tell you’re starting to wind down.” His fingers are on the shell of Felix’s ear, feather-soft, and his expression is too dear and anxious for Felix to be disappointed.

“I know. I know that’s not why.” He sighs and wraps his arms around Carver’s ribs as far as they’ll go—the awkward angle, with Carver slightly farther down the couch than he, means that his fingertips barely meet in the middle, but he squeezes him fondly nonetheless. “I wish you could stay the night, but, um. that’s probably not a good idea right now.”

“That’s fine. This… this was perfect. You’re more than enough, just as you are.” He tucks a little kiss just below Felix’s ear like a secret and pushes up on his hands and knees. “Thank you for tonight. And for being patient with me.”

Felix snorts and sits upright, burying his face in the crook of Carver’s neck where it smells warm and strongly of him. “Thank you for the same. You’re wonderful, you know that?”

“I try,” Carver teases. With some groaning and sighing, he climbs off the couch and stretches his arms above his head, baring a thin strip of pale skin. Like this Felix can see clearly how turned on he was, though he senses that the evidence is lesser now than it was a minute ago. He swallows hard and gets to his feet.

“Can I get you anything before you go? Coffee?”

“I’m good. I’m—” He breaks off for a jaw-cracking yawn and slips a hand around Felix’s waist, casually affectionate. “I’m probably going to pass out as soon as I get home. But.” He closes the negligible distance between them and drops a kiss on his brow. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Very,” Felix promises, leaning against him for a moment before he forces himself to step away. With some distance he can see how delicious Carver looks, soft and rumpled, his cheeks still a little bit pink, his mouth still a little bit swollen. “Drive safe, my dear.”

When Carver has gone, the apartment seems strikingly empty without him. He goes around turning off lights and wishes for a moment that he’d asked Carver to stay. And he does want that, someday, maybe someday soon—puttering around getting ready for bed together, brushing their teeth, fighting over the bedclothes. Feeling a bit pathetic, he opens a new text. _I miss you already_. About five seconds after hitting “send,” he feels stupid and quickly composes a follow-up. _That’s pathetic, isn’t it._

The reply comes as he’s brushing his teeth—his phone buzzes abruptly against the enamel sink and he jumps, foam speckling the mirror. He scowls at his reflection, toothbrush poking out of his mouth, and wipes away the spittle as he checks his phone.

 _not pathetic, I miss you too._ Then, a moment later, _being with you is so easy I don’t really know what to do with myself. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. is that terrible?_

Felix spits into the sink and wonders how to respond. _what other shoe do you mean?_

_I guess this has never happened to me before—being so comfortable with one person all the time. In a romantic capacity, I mean. I guess that’s a perk of being friends first._

_I think it’s normal to be nervous_ , Felix replies as he moves into the bedroom to get changed. _it’s early days yet. I’m sure we’ll leave the honeymoon phase behind us eventually. But I hope it never stops being so easy to sit with you and just be._

 _agreed_ _J_ , comes the reply, and Felix smiles down at the screen like a fool, knees brushing the edge of the mattress as he stands there in pants and a long-sleeved tee. Then, _I’m getting on the tube in a bit, so i’ll say goodnight._

_text me when you get home safe?_

_of course. sleep well, fee. xx_

///

A few of them meet at Felix’s place on a Saturday night in early April, partaking of an _aperitif_ in the form of gin and tonics that Dorian whips up with a little dollop of lavender simple syrup to make things interesting. Beth and Merrill are there, as well as Qarina and her cousin Ashaad with his petite, willowy boyfriend always in his shadow. Felix is like a butterfly flitting to and fro under their congratulatory ardor, trading compliments and admiring everyone as he is admired in turn.

Carver, for his part, is happy to join them. Felix has taken extra care with his appearance tonight in a way that Carver has never seen before, dressed in black jeans that cling to him like a second skin and a loose white tank that shows off his tattoos, even dipping low enough in front to bare part of the breastplate on his sternum. His hair, usually kept neat and close to his head, has been combed out and arranged into neat waves with a bit of cinnamon-scented pomade, and Carver suspects he’s wearing a touch of eyeliner behind the polished tortoiseshell rims of his glasses. The entire ensemble makes him look… very, very fuckable, he admits to himself, standing near the curtained windows and clutching his gin and tonic for dear life. Gone is the _probably-straight_ aesthetic Carver once debated over with Fenris, and in its place is _definitely gay and very stylish_. So if he blushes a few times when Felix turns in such a way that his jeans stretch taut across his arse, Carver thinks he can be excused.

Wicked Hearts, when they arrive, is everything he’d hoped it would be. He remembers it as a grimy, down-home hole in the wall sort of place, but time has  been kind to it; the view from the coatroom reveals brick walls packed with alternative art and indie posters, dark varnished wood, antique bar stools, and faux vintage posters advertising pin-up style drag shows and the list of specialty cocktails named after famous gay historical figures. But the most important thing is that Felix is delighted with it—although he’s in a mood to be delighted by everything, between the finished thesis and the gathering of friends and the drinks he’s already had—and so Carver is happy.

Carver can usually hold his liquor, but the gin and tonics earlier must have been strong because he’s only two beers in when Felix drags him onto the dance floor and he actually _goes_. He used to love this kind of thing, back when he was young and stupid and hungry for affection from anyone, _everyone_ , any stranger who was kind enough to buy him a drink and flirt a little before they segued to the loo or the back alley. He likes to think he’s matured a little since then, but it’s almost scary how easily it comes back to him.

After a few dances he’s sweated most of the liquor out of his system, so he pats Felix’s bottom and goes for refills. When he returns, Felix is busy holding court with Mae and Dorian, hands moving a mile a minute and face flushed with exertion and excitement. Carver presses his cocktail into his hands, drops a kiss on his shoulder, and goes to reconvene with Beth and Merrill. Fen is there too, nursing a glass of Tullamore Dew, neat, and before he knows it Carver’s been sucked into a very serious discussion about getting together a Dungeons and Dragons group with Alistair and Shani on weekends.

He’s giggling at something Fen said that he can’t even remember anymore when Felix drops into his lap. He latches on immediately, accepting a sticky, beery kiss and wrapping his arms around his waist, admiring the swathe of bare, inked chest exposed by the slump of his shirt.

“I’ve missed you,” Felix says into his ear. It tickles, but it feels good, too, and Carver tips his head up to kiss the bristly underside of his jaw.

“I’m sorry. I got distracted.” _And now I’m really, really distracted_ , he thinks. The way Felix is sitting and the loose cut of his shirt allow Carver to look down and see a slip of brown nipple, peaked against the fabric and begging to be touched. Instead he squeezes Felix’s hip and says, “Wanna dance?”

Felix grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Maybe it’s the drinks or maybe it’s just the late hour and the air of celebration infusing everything, but this time the dance feels different. His blood is on _fire_. The music pounds through his body like a primal wave, grabbing hold of any trace of clumsiness and melting it down into rhythm. Felix is a press of heat and firmness, reduced to flesh and bone, sweat and fading cologne where Carver’s face is pressed to the back of his neck. And his arse, dear god, pressed to Carver’s crotch. He doesn’t know where the others are, and he doesn’t care—they are alone in an ocean of movement and shadow, the center of a vortex where the only thing that matters is the sway and grind of their bodies as they sweat and slip together.

The dances blur together in a slow burn of arousal. Felix turns and sways in his arms, leans up to kiss him and then peels away to arch his back and move, too sinuous to be real, against Carver’s body. And then the burn isn’t so slow anymore. Like a bright campfire spark flaring up suddenly, Carver realized he’s about to cum. And he knows, the one sober thought left in his head, that he doesn’t want it like this. Hot and fuzzy and public, smelling like old beer and other people’s perfume. He stills, hands iron-hard on Felix’s sinuous hips, and whispers raggedly in his ear, “D’you wanna get out of here?”

Felix turns readily in his arms and rocks up for a fervent kiss. Carver can feel his erection through their jeans and his brain short-circuits. That would be a yes.

Felix drags him bodily from the club, but instead of going out front and flagging a cab, he ducks around and leads them into the narrow alley next door and then he’s a warm, sweet-breathed weight pressing Carver to the cold brick wall. It scrapes him through his shirt like Felix scrapes his nails down his chest and belly, leaving trails of light burning in their wake. Carver bites down on the noises welling in his throat and grabs Felix around the waist. Only his hands sort of stumble, navigating clumsily down until they’re cupping two handfuls of delicious arse, and Felix is grinding against him in earnest now, whimpering against his ear and puffing white breaths of exertion into the chill night air.

“You feel so good,” he mumbles, lips moving of their own accord.

Felix whines and his hips stutter. “Fuck, Carver, oh my god.” His fingers are clumsy and full of need, clinging to his sweaty shirt and finding the hem, sliding underneath and gripping the planes of his back. Carver responds in kind, grabbing him decisively by the hips and pulling them together. He tastes the salty curve of Felix’s neck and bites down hard.

“Ngh! Oh…” Felix’s voice is a ragged breath in his ear—it stops and starts and stops again, shuddering all over with the writhe of his body, and then he lets go and slumps against him, pressing them both into the unforgiving brick.

Wide-eyed and panting like a racehorse, still impossibly hard in his jeans, Carver rubs the nape of Felix’s neck tentatively. “Hey… all right?”

“Mmmn.” He sounds as groggy as he looks, movements slurred by drink and desire as he lifts his head from Carver’s chest. “I… honestly thought I was too far gone for that.”

Carver’s heart thumps against his ribs. “You mean you…”

“Yeah.” Felix blinks. “What the _fuck._ ”

Oh, god. Arousal blinds him, fuzzy like a bad receiver, and his hands fumble against Felix’s back. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m… yeah.” He lists a bit, a ship in a storm, and somehow he’s on his knees and Carver can’t remember how he got there. “Can I? I wanna, Carv, please.”

Like a lighthouse flaring in a dark night, reason returns to his gin-soaked head. “Hang on. Fee, wait, no don’t do that.” He catches his fumbling hands away from his fly and pulls him up, trying to ignore the aching need pounding insistently through his body. “Fee. Just…”

“Is something wrong?” he asks, looking up at him with huge dark eyes, and Carver wants so desperately to give in. But instead he pushes his hair back from his sweaty forehead and drops back against the brick wall, dragging in deep draughts of stale alley air until his thoughts are a little less swirly.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says at last, touching the corner of Felix’s eye gently. The skin there is so thin and fragile, smeared with a little bit of kohl—Dorian’s doing, probably. “I just don’t think this is a good idea.”

Slowly, understanding comes into his face, and he plants his face into Carver’s sweaty chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. God, please don’t be sorry.” _Sober, sober, sober_ , he chants silently, hoping against hope that it will actually work. “I want you so badly. But I don’t want it to be like this, the first time. And I don’t think you do, either.”

He feels Felix nod against his shirt, and he pets the back of his head with short strokes, fingernails scraping lightly until Felix shivers and pulls back with his lips still swollen and delectable from their earlier fervor. “’M sorry I… you know.” He gestures vaguely to his waist—no, to his crotch, Carver realizes with a hot, confused flush of shame and arousal. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s—no, no, don’t. I’m not trying to—it was hot, honestly, I just. Ugh.” His tongue feels heavy and clumsy in his mouth, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. “Fucking hell I’m too drunk to be having this conversation.”

“I want to have sex with you,” Felix blurts suddenly. He rears back a little, trying to put some distance between them, and Carver lets him, fingers grasping fruitlessly at his lean hips. “I mean. God, that was sudden. I just mean, I’ve been wanting to tell you, and I feel like I _should_ tell you and not just jump into it, because I want to make sure you’re ready, too.” He sucks on his lower lip anxiously. “Are you? Not right this minute, obviously, but… soon?”

“Soon,” Carver agrees. He holds out his arms and Felix steps into them, both of them tacky with sweat and smelling of liquor and other people’s cigarette smoke. But it doesn’t seem to matter.

“I think I want to go home,” Felix says after a while. “Not that—I had a wonderful time. But I’m ready for bed, I think.”

“All right. I’ll call you a cab.”

“ _Us_ a cab,” Felix corrects. He smiles innocently at Carver’s incredulous look—can he really not feel the hard-on still popping insistently in Carver’s pants? “You can sleep on the couch,” he says cheekily, and laughs at Carver’s forlorn expression. “Unless you can promise to be good. Although… I think I’m the one who’s having trouble there.” He looks down at himself with a grimace, still listing into Carver’s body. “I feel sticky.”

“I bet you do,” he murmurs, firing off a text to the taxi service before putting his phone away. “C’mon. Let’s make our goodbyes now, before you fall over.”

///

Felix falls asleep on Carver’s shoulder in the cab. When he wakes up it’s to Carver’s arm around him and his lips in his hair, whispering something he can’t quite make out. He grunts and turns his face into Carver’s chest, so broad and inviting he he could just burrow into it and stay there forever.

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbles, and Carver laughs, breath smelling of beer and chips.

“You’re gonna want a shower soon, sweetheart, trust me. Come on, cabbie’s waiting.”

In fits and starts, they make their way upstairs and into Felix’s apartment where a glass of water and some paracetamol help wake him up a little. He looks across the room at Carver, who has removed himself to the couch as promised and is currently trying to figure out the fastenings on his jeans. Felix licks his lips. “Need some help?”

“I’m fine,” comes the burred response. “Aha!” In a trice he’s fighting his way out of his jeans and falling onto the couch in pants and tee, apparently not concerned about the lack of covering. The shower is calling him desperately, but Felix forces his limbs to cooperate and fetches him a few throw blankets from the linen closet, pausing by the end of the couch to stroke his sweaty hair.

“Y’okay?”

“Mmm.” Carver turns into the touch like a tame animal, his smile blurred in the dark. There’s a particularly dark freckle at the apex of his cheekbone that Felix longs to kiss, but he knows that if he tries he’ll just fall over.

“You don’ really have to sleep here, you know. You can come to my bed.”

Carver rolls onto his back and looks up at him, eyes direct and gleaming in the light filtering in from the street. “I want to, believe me. A little too much.”

Felix aches. “I want you to, too. And. I want you. God, I can’t even talk.” He scrubs a hand across his mouth and pouts when Carver laughs at him.

“Exactly. Go take a shower. And… tomorrow. Ask me again tomorrow.”

Felix bites his lip. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He blinks lazily, so slow that for a moment Felix thinks he’s fallen right to sleep. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“G’night.”

With some effort, Felix peels himself away from the couch and pads to the bathroom. The light is too bright when he turns it on, so he showers in the dark and stumbles to bed still stinging from the hot water and the vigorous scrubbing. His bed is like a heavenly cocoon embracing him—he falls into it naked and still wet from his shower, and sleep comes over him almost instantly.

When he wakes, it’s to water by his bed and the smell of coffee permeating the flat. His mouth is drier that cotton fluff, but a few slow swallows of water soon fixes that. Last night is a bit hazy in his mind, but he definitely remembers the heat and hardness of Carver’s body, his irresistible scent and and taste of his mouth. Even drunk it had been fantastic. Sober…

_Ask me again tomorrow._

With a little leap in his chest, he scrambles out of bed and lunges for his dresser drawers, pulling out pants and a shirt and some loose cotton sleep pants that feel like clouds against his skin. But when he pushes through the door and into the living room, the couch is empty and the blankets he’d left there are neatly folded at the foot of it. Mood darkening, he makes a beeline for the coffeepot instead, which is still piping hot and has a sticky note affixed to the side.

_Fee,_

_Sorry I’m not here to kiss you good morning. Stroud called and needed an extra pair of hands for a few hours. If you want, I’d like to come see you after. Or maybe you can come to mine. Text me._

_xx Carver_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was doing a little editing in the car on the way home from Boston and accidentally hit "post without preview" instead of "save without posting," so it is what it is. Hope you still enjoyed. Next update will be Wednesday!


	24. 24.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think we all know what happens in this chapter, so I'm not even going to bother with a summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to hannah, who has been waiting almost since the beginning for this chapter ;)

The knock comes just as Carver has finished tidying, self-conscious for the first time in weeks over the state of his flat. He ducks into the bathroom on the way to the door and straightens his hair, but doesn’t have time to do much more—he’s been waiting all day, it feels like, to have Felix in his arms again, and he wants to be sure everything is okay after last night.

Felix is there when he opens the door, smiling and carrying a bag of takeaway from Varric’s. “Hi there,” he says, or starts to say, but he’s cut off as Carver loops one muscular arm around Felix’s waist and kisses him right there in the doorway. Felix succumbs and kisses back, tongues curling together and their chests pressed flush. It’s much the same as any other kiss they’ve shared, but there’s something different about it, some undercurrent of excitement that Carver can’t quite place. He draws back, examining his boyfriend’s face, but finds only a happy, slightly dazed expression that gives him no clues.

“Hello to you, too,” Felix says. “Mind if I come in?”

“If you must,” Carver quips, stepping back to let him into the apartment. He shuts the door behind him and relieves him of his burden, inhaling the cartons surreptitiously. He’s already set up plates and things on the coffee table, so he totes everything over there and starts dishing up dinner. He doesn’t quite know why, but he needs the space, needs to not meet his dark, beautiful eyes for just a moment. His heart is hammering in his chest as he spoons flakes of parmesan over their gnocchi, and he scrambles for something to fill the silence. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Felix says, sounding amused.

“Than... last night? This morning?” 

“Yes to all.” The couch creaks behind him as Felix sits down, and Carver bends indecently low, making sure the plates are evenly split. Felix gives a delicate cough. “How about you? I can’t believe you were up and at the woodshop at that godawful hour.”

“It wasn’t too bad. I’m big, alcohol burns off pretty quick. Stroud still gave me shit for it, but technically I wasn’t even supposed to be on the clock, so.” He turns and gets an eyeful of Felix staring at his arse. “Hi.”

“Sorry,” Felix says immediately, and he flushes and looks down. Carver reaches out and touches his chin gently, coaxing his gaze away from the floor.

“Hey. It’s fine.” He leans down, his free arm braced against the back of the couch, and his fingers against his jaw guides him in perfectly for a kiss. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you last night.”

“Just last night?” Felix asks cheekily.

“Hmph. I think you know the answer to that question.” He flops down next to him and reaches for his plate. “Did you want to put something on?”

“If you like.”

Carver spends the next few minutes flipping through Netflix, trying to decide what they’re both in the mood for. By the time they settle on  _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , their plates are clean and Felix is yawning into Carver’s chest, a warm and soft-sturdy weight that has rapidly become one of his favorite things in the world. Trying not to jostle him, Carver leaves the remote on the cushion and brings his other arm around to stroke the sensitive skin behind Felix’s ear, right where he knows it feels best. As predicted, Felix melts, mouth falling slack and exhaling a hot cloud of breath through Carver’s shirt. 

“Feels good,” he mumbles, and nuzzles up under his chin. 

“Wanna relocate? Maybe watch it in bed instead?”

“Mm-hmm.” 

With some coaxing, Felix is pulled off the couch and they move to the bedroom, moving around another in a way that’s both familiar and new. Carver strips to pants and a tee and Felix follows suit, stealing a pair of his little-used sleep pants for good measure, and Carver fixes up the Roku before they settle in, duvet pushed to the foot of the bed and their feet tangled in the sheets. 

“You know,” Felix says quietly as the first eerie notes filter through the speakers of Carver’s slightly shittier telly, “I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

“Us. And last night.”

Anticipation sends a flutter of nerves through his belly. He puts his hand over Felix’s, which has migrated to the center of his chest, and rubs his thumb over the thin, soft skin of his knuckles until Felix scritches his fingers in the fabric of his shirt. “Good things?”

“Yes. I think so. Um.” Awkward laughter wafts against his neck and Felix shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me. If you want. I mean, I think I know what you’re getting at. You kind of said everything last night. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Yeah. I meant it—all of it. This is just… sober confirmation.”

Carver shakes with suppressed laughter. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He holds his breath and stares at the ceiling. He wonders if Felix is asking _right now_ , but he doesn’t know quite how to phrase the question, and anyway he’s too scared to ask.

“I just,” Felix says. He stops and Carver can feel the bob of his throat against his shoulder when he swallows. “I know you’ve been waiting on me, so…”

“What? No, not at all,” Carver says firmly. “I’ve been waiting for _us_. For the right time. Whenever that is.”

“Oh. Good.” Felix turns his head and kisses his clavicle through his shirt and settles back down.

On the telly, the title screen is filtering in, backed by the signature theme music in a soft, haunting acoustic. He’s missed the entire intro, Carver realizes. He slots their fingers together loosely on his chest and tries to focus.

They only make it about twenty minutes before it becomes clear that Felix isn’t really paying attention. He’s got his nose buried in Carver’s throat and his knee hooked loosely over Carver’s thigh—definitely snuggling, but not groping—and he’s more invested in petting Carver’s ribs and nuzzling little kisses under his jaw than watching the telly. Carver turns his head enough to press his nose to Felix’s forehead and whispers, “Hobbits, huh? Gets you hot?”

Felix snickers and shuffles closer, close enough that Carver can feel him well over half-hard against his hip. “ _You_ get me hot.”

“Damn, and I’m laying here in my underwear watching some wee folk dancing around a tree.” He turns the volume down a little, but not off, and adjusts his arm around Felix’s body so he can rub his flank through his shirt. Felix hums and rubs his nose along Carver’s throat, already flushed and prickling with his kisses. “D’you want to shut it off?” he murmurs, fingers finding the hem of Felix’s tank and scritching lightly at the skin of his hip.

“Mmm. No, it’s fine. Leave it on. Ambiance.” Unsaid but understood: _leave it on in case one of us changes our mind, and we need something to cool off to._

Carver brings his other hand over his body to cover Felix’s arm where it sprawls across his chest. Felix seems content to lie against him like this for a little while, semi-soft and mouthing bonelessly at the salty curve of his neck; Carver, meanwhile, falls into a sort of half-doze, his breath huffing strong and peacefully through his nose and his dick a plump curve in his briefs. A little bit of time later, he comes back to himself to feel Felix breathing heavily against his shoulder and his fingers clutched in Carver’s shirt, ostensibly to keep from grabbing the hard-on poking into his hip. Carver firms his hand on Felix’s hip and drags him closer until Felix has a thigh wedged high up under his balls and their faces are close enough that he can kiss him.

Felix bites at his mouth for a moment or two before Carver regains control, one hand gripping firm at the back of his neck and steadying him to something softer, slower. Felix moans and curls his hips forward, nudging thighs and cocks together, and Carver inhales sharply at the unmistakability of it. 

Almost of its own accord, his other hand snakes down and grabs a handful of arse. Felix whines through his nose and grinds down against him. Carver groans, whispers, “You like that?” And it sounds cliché to say it, like he’s parroting every lame, low-budget porno he’s ever snuck under the covers at night, but Felix responds like a well-loved cat, arching into his hand and grabbing at his shoulder for better purchase with a sigh.

“Mmhmm. More, please. If that’s okay?”

“Definitely.”

His hand shakes a little bit as it slides up his spine, slow, memorizing every vertebra before smoothing down again and squeezing. He’s had the pleasure of an arse grope a few times now, but always over jeans or trousers, and this is a wholly different experience. The soft cotton of Felix’s pants does little to mask the firm, plush heat of his skin, the flex of the muscle, the sweet groove where Carver’s first two fingers naturally fall. Felix hums into his mouth and wriggles closer, encouraging the exploration of his hand—lightheaded, Carver presses between his cheeks and rubs down, grazing the weight of his balls where they rock against his thigh.

“Ngh.” Felix tears his mouth away wetly, lips parted, slick with saliva and possibly the most beautiful thing Carver has ever seen. “Can I…” His hand hovers over Carver’s chest, the right side, where the peak of a nipple rises demurely against the fabric.

“Um. Yeah. Yes, god, absolutely.” His right hand unknots itself from the sheets belatedly and curls around Felix’s nape, drawing him close for another soft kiss. “You can—anything. Do anything you want, touch me howev… however you want.” He swallows against the break in his throat, surprised by the wave of sensation that washes through him at Felix’s touch. Eyes dark, Felix watches him, fingers pinching lightly, rhythmically before rubbing in firm circles over his nipple. He smiles, and the flash of his teeth is shockingly white in the low light.

“Your shirt?”

“Yeah. Here.”

Felix rocks back, but only a little, bracing himself on one elbow while Carver wrestles free of his tee shirt. When it’s off, Carver throws it to the other side of the room and lays back, shivering a little at the chill of the room and the fond, familiar warmth of Felix’s hand on his belly. He swallows hard. Those fingers spread, delicate, and his palm slides up over his ribs to stroke wide circles across his chest.

“I like how strong you are,” Felix murmurs, showing a glimpse of nerves for the first time as he turns his face away. Carver catches his chin with his thumb instead and draws him down.

“C’mere. You’re gorgeous, you know that? I could stare at your for hours.” He gives a quick peck to Felix’s smiling cheek, warm against his lips like the first flush of embarrassment. Or arousal.   _God, I adore you._ “Hey. Okay?”

“Mm.” Felix nods, sliding one thigh up and then over, settling surreptitiously astride him. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Completely.” He scrapes his nails across his sacrum lightly, ruffling the hem of his ribbed vest for a better reach, and Felix arches forward, rubbing their groins together. Carver exhales hard through his nose and drops his head back on the pillow. “Jesus.”

“Good?” Felix whispers, as if he doesn’t already know. He still looks inordinately pleased at Carver’s grunt of affirmation.

He rocks lazily in Carver’s lap, noses brushing occasionally with their proximity and one hand exploring Carver’s ribs. For such a simple act, the intensity is almost overwhelming—every hot breath puffing against his cheek, every stroke of his fingers, every shift of their hips together is stoking a slow-burning fire low in his belly, and the heat enfolds him, suffusing his face and his fingers and toes until he’s sure he must be glowing pink. His cock is hard in his briefs and resting slightly to the left; Felix rubs on it with perfect accuracy, his own cock lined up just so, their pants catching and sliding together with every back-and-forth.

“Feels amazing,” Carver grits out as Felix sits upright for a better angle. He grabs his arse with one hand, guiding the grind of his hips, and pushes the other up the front of his vest, exploring the smooth skin and wiry hair beneath. Felix leans into his hand and sighs.

“Can you…” He strokes the back of Carver’s hand through his shirt, slotting their fingers together with only thin cotton in between.

“Whatever you want, baby. Um.” He falters at the surprise on Felix’s face. “Sorry. I can—not call you that, if you’d prefer.”

“No, it’s all right, I just. Wasn’t expecting it? Wasn’t expecting to… like it.” He huffs out self-deprecating laughter, and Carver surges upright, so endeared he needs to kiss him right this minute. While they do, mouths soft and tongues sloppy, his other hand slips beneath the waistband of Felix’s pants, stroking sweet, bare skin. Felix groans against his lips and ruts hard up against him, hands on his shoulders for balance. “Fuck. Carver…”

“Yeah.” Heat blazes through him, sudden and potent like a shot of good whiskey; following the momentum, he hooks an arm around Felix’s waist and turns, tipping him onto his back on the mattress. Felix’s legs fall open as he goes, and Carver’s eyes drop, drawn to the way his brief hugs him like a second skin. “Is this…”

“Okay, yes, it’s okay, it’s _more_ than okay,” Felix babbles, one hand already up under his vest in preparation for taking it off. But Carver stops him with a hand to his arm, and leans down, braced between his splayed knees.

“Hang on. I want…” Instead of saying it, the words clumsy on his tongue, he leans down and _does_ it, tugging down the upper hem of his vest to bare his inked chest and one brown nipple. The edge cuts into Felix’s collarbone a little, blurring the sharp line of a coiling vine, and Carver kisses that spot first, tender, before moving down, mouth open and wet against his chest. His nipple is round and taut under his thumb; he circles it a few times before leaning down to trace the same path with his tongue and sucking it into his mouth.

His skin tastes like salt and clean laundry and a little bit like his lemon verbena body wash, the kind Carver can always smell lingering in the crook of his neck. Fondness surges up his spine even as Felix whimpers, fingers in Carver’s hair, and he laves open, generous kisses to the spot before moving sideways, prying the fabric away to bite softly at the meat of his pectoral. Felix presses him down and he goes, kissing him everywhere, tongue hot and broad as he explores his ribs, the divot of his navel, the hair clustered darkly from sternum down, down in a thin line to his pants.

And there he stops, just like the last time, although it takes effort. He can smell Felix’s arousal—can _see_ it, clearly outlined against the dark cotton, with a smudge of wetness where the head rests fat and pronounced just beneath the constricting waistband—and though he wants to get his tongue around it, feel it hard and unyielding in the back of his throat, he pulls up instead to kiss his hipbone, his flank, under his arm. Felix laughs and squirms, but doesn’t pull away, letting him have his fill.

“Why did you stop?” Felix asks softly when he comes back up to pay obeisance to his lips. Carver hesitates, trapped in the moment before a kiss, struck dumb by the swell of Felix’s pupils all black and round.

“What do you mean?”

Lower lip trapped between his teeth, Felix takes Carver’s hand and moves it bodily down his belly to where that trail of thick, dark hair disappears into his pants. “ _Why_ ,” he whispers, each word enunciated so crisply the syllables feel like feather-light touches to his skin, “did you _stop_?”

Carver drags in a taut breath and reaches down. The hot, hard shape of his cock in his briefs fills his palm easily, and he rubs up and down, an experimental stroke. Felix’s thighs are spread so wide it’s dizzying—he makes a desperate, low noise in his throat and rocks his hips up into Carver’s hand. Chest tight, Carver rubs his thumb against his frenulum and leans down to kiss the weight of him through his pants.

“Carv…”

“Is this all right?” he rasps. “If I take these off?”

Felix licks his lips. “Please.”

His hands are shaking a little as he hooks his fingers into the elastic, but Felix has the kindness not to say anything. Instead he lifts his hips up off the mattress and smiles encouragingly as Carver peels them down slow, breathless, feeling like he’s removing the last silk scarf in a long, precarious dance. It’s not very graceful—they’re skintight enough that they’re difficult to get off at this angle, and he gets them twisted around his ankles for all his care, but Felix just laughs and some of the nervous tension dissolves as he finally tugs them free and tosses them off the side of the bed.

“Finally,” Felix whispers, still smiling, one calf rubbing along Carver’s thigh in a gentle stroke.

Carver looks at him. Bare, he is impossibly perfect to his eyes, the same smooth, golden brown all over, darker at his nipples and the foreskin of his cock, painted muted colors with the tattoos that cover his chest and arms and shoulders. The hair on his body is dark and thick, trimmed to a neat, even length between his legs. Carefully, almost afraid that this vision will shatter if he moves too quickly, he lays a hand on Felix’s thigh and strokes the smooth inner skin, close by not quite touching where his bollocks draw up tight against his body.

“You are… you can’t be real,” he fumbles, tongue like lead. His hand feels heavy and brutish, but Felix grabs hold of his wrist before he can pull away and brings it to his lips, kissing his fingers, every scar and callus like he’s kissing the feet of Christ.

“I am. And so are you. And so is this, somehow.” He props himself up and Carver meets him halfway with a kiss, slow and wondering. _I love you_ , he thinks desperately. _I love you, I love you, I love you_. “Take off your pants,” Felix says against his lips, so he does. Shuffles back on his knees, pushes clumsily at his briefs and finally tugs them off, and crawls back down to lay their bodies against each other, naked together for the first time.

Felix is even smoother than he looks, firm in some places and soft in others, with a raspy tickle of hair at his chest and down his belly. Their cocks bump together and Carver stifles a groan in the curve of Felix’s neck where it still smells freshly of musk and lemon. “You feel so good.”

“Mmmm.” Felix closes his teeth delicately around Carver’s earlobe, hands smoothing down his back and legs folding loosely around Carver’s hips. “God, Carv, you’ve been holding out on me.”

“I… what?”

Pulling back just enough that Carver can see his impish smirk, Felix reaches between them and wraps his fingers around his prick. Even circumcised it’s a hefty weight, thicker around in the shaft than the blunt shape of the head. He slides his thumb across the top, rubbing at the slit, and Carver huffs a low groan into his hair.

“ _This_ ,” Felix murmurs, “is magnificent.”

“Your hand is magnificent,” Carver snarks back, laughing when Felix nips at his lower lip in retaliation. “Jesus fuck, I’m being serious.” He rocks forward, letting Felix’s hand slide along his length, back and forth in an easy movement. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined this.”

“Does it measure up?” Felix asks breathlessly, tugging with more insistence.

It more than matches up, but before he can give it voice, there’s a sudden burst of noise—like there’ a pub full of people in the next room. He jerks, startled, but Felix is laughing at him, eyes deeply crinkled as he reaches for the remote.

“I’m just going to turn this off,” he says, and he does, leaving Carver to bury his embarrassment into Felix’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, though he can’t help but groan at the fingers in his hair. Masterfully, Felix scrapes his nails lightly along his scalp and down his neck, hands spread wide around his shoulders and coming down to pet his chest.

“Don’t be sorry. The look on your face—”

Carver cuts his snickering off with a growl and rears back, hoisting him up a few inches by his hips. Felix grabs at the sheets for balance and gapes a bit in surprise, head sunk deeper into the pillows and his thighs around Carver’s ribs. “Shush. _You’re_ the one who wanted to leave it on.” He turns and kisses the inside of Felix’s knee, then a little lower, tracing a path up his inner thigh. Felix finds his hair again and tangles there.

“Carv,” he murmurs, suddenly more serious. “Do you have…”

“Condoms?” he hedges. “Yeah, in the drawer.” As of a few days ago, when he’d come this close to blowing Felix on the couch and only realized later that he was woefully unprepared if Felix wasn’t ready for unprotected sex. He nuzzles the inside of his thigh and lets him slowly back down to the mattress, practically salivating at the thought of having him in his mouth. “D’you want me to grab one? Or two?”

“One is fine,” Felix says quietly, flushed with more than arousal. “That is, if you wanted to…”

“I want to,” Carver blurts. He clears his throat. “If that’s what you want, I mean, yeah.”

“Oral fixation?” he suggests, an impish light reappearing in his eyes. Carver hums and leans down, kissing him soundly for answer. His mouth is hotter and softer than it was before, not quite lazy but more pliable, responding to every touch and movement with a magnetism that leaves him breathless. He strokes the seam of his thigh and wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, working it gently, admiring the give and slide of his foreskin until Felix whimpers and bites weakly at his lips, a silent plea for more.

“Hang on,” he whispers against his lips. “Don’t laugh at me if I fuck it up, okay? It’s been awhile.”

“Awhile since sex, or since you used a condom?”

“Yes to both.” Carver pries himself away with some effort and leans across to the bedside drawer, tugging it open and snagging a condom packet with one hand. He leaves it open in case lube becomes necessary, and returns to find Felix craning up for more kisses.

“I’ve got it,” he says, taking the packet delicately from his hand. He seems a little embarrassed by the request, so Carver bends himself to the task of erasing any trace of nervousness while Felix takes care of the condom. He kisses behind his ear and down his jaw, rubs his nose into the spicy crook of his neck—he can’t resist a hint of teeth, and he leaves behind a few little pink marks behind until Felix suddenly grabs him by the nape and gasps, “Carver, please, _please_ suck me.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, a little lightheaded. He kisses his lips one more time, quick and shallow like a promise, and moves down the bed to lay between Felix’s spread legs.

He fists his cock for a moment, getting a feel for the weight. Higher on the bed, Felix sighs, hips shifting up into his grip, and Carver kisses the flat of his hipbone before tucking an arm under one sprawled thigh and guiding his cock into his mouth.

It’s a little odd at first with the condom—he keeps expecting to taste skin, and instead only feels the too-smooth texture of latex under his tongue—but slipping his lips around the plump head and hearing Felix whimper in response for the first time is a magic unto itself. He lets his hand slide lower to cup his bollocks and just uses his mouth, working up saliva and reveling in the girth of him sliding in and out of his mouth. Felix is fairly quiet at first, little sounds escaping almost by accident; but a few minutes and some determination on Carver’s part, and the room is filled with gasps and grunts, and Felix finally starts to rock his hips, fucking his mouth in that sloppy, aborted way that means he’s trying very hard to keep control and isn’t really succeeding.

And, after a few minutes, Carver forgets about the condom entirely. He’s too caught up in the experience—the intense earthy smell of his lover’s arousal that even a bit of plastic can’t dampen, the scrape of his pubic hair and the light patina of sweat rising to his thighs, the weak scrabble of his hands in Carver’s hair. He can’t seem to get a grip, just fumbles and presses in time to the bob of Carver’s head, groaning long and heartfelt when he manages to get him down into his throat a time or two.

“Jesus,” Felix gasps the first time it happens, more out of surprise than anything else, then, “Fuck!” the second time, and an incoherent string of babble after that, only pushing his head away when he gags a little on the fourth go. “Christ, you’re good at that,” he pants, red-faced, his cock a hard curve against Carver’s lips.

“Want me to keep going?”

“I want… I want to feel you.” He reaches down, fingers ghosting over the line of Carver’s shoulder where he’s bowed over him like a penitent at an altar. “Come here. Please.”

Carver comes. Crawling up his body, dropping kisses wherever he pleases, until they’re belly to belly and Felix’s tongue is in his mouth. It’s hard to believe how easy it is now, how uncomplicated—he can remember when just a peck on the lips was a daunting prospect, and now Felix is biting at his neck and clawing at his back as they rut together, sweaty and desperate.

“Fuck,” he gasps, and how has it come on this quickly, already tingling in his fingers and slamming his heart into his ribs like a caged beast? “Oh fuck, Felix, _baby_ …”

Felix’s mouth is open but no coherent words emerge, just a strained, drawn-out cry as his neck arches and his face blooms even redder in orgasm. Carver can’t feel any wetness aside from his own saliva, but his cock seems to jerk a little between their bellies, and he reaches down to stroke the tremors out of him. And then, as Felix goes limp and soft, he kneels up a little and takes himself in hand, chasing the peak.

“Cum on me,” Felix rasps, already heavy-lidded, hands clumsy as they follow the bulge of muscles in his arms and chest. “Please. I want you to.”

The slurred request is like the final strike of a hammer against the anvil—sparks flare behind his eyes and he does as Felix asks, body locking up as he stripes his brown belly with white.

He collapses in the aftermath, sweat-slick and breathing heavily into the curve of Felix’s neck. Felix clutches him in turn and slowly their breaths fall into sync—he’s a bit numb in the extremities, but he still touches him, _needs_ to touch him, hands stroking his flank and hip. But before he can grow too comfortable, Felix nudges at his chest until he takes the hint and rolls over onto his side, face still burrowed in his collarbones. 

“Don’t go yet,” he mumbles, hand skidding down his chest and stomach, proprietary, smearing the mess into his skin. Felix catches his hand and kisses the wrist before slipping out of bed. 

“I’ll be right back. I promise.” 

Carver grunts and sprawls on his back, watching the movement of the muscles underneath his skin as Felix walks to the bathroom. He’s even more gorgeous now, he decides, his body flushed and damp with exertion, the hollow of his lumbar spine moving like a slow, sedentary river swollen with rainwater. Then he disappears behind the brick wall and he lets his eyes fall shut, impossibly exhausted.

In the washroom, the sink runs and Carver can hear him splashing about. When he returns, skin still pink where he’s scrubbed it clean, Carver opens his arms and he climbs into them, both of them a little tacky with sweat but neither of them caring. They only wriggle down more decidedly into the pillows, Carver nosing at his throat and enveloping as much as physically possible. Felix snickers but doesn’t protest, only winds himself around Carver in turn and accepts his lazy, haphazard kisses with soft delight.

“Was that all right?” Felix whispers after a while.

“More than all right.” Carver slides down and kisses his chest, then his ribcage, following the path he’d bitten into his skin. The marks have already faded, but the memory remains—he kisses his bellybutton and returns to rest his cheek against the tiny, haphazard poesy inked into the center of his breastplate like a cheerful coat of arms. “You good?”

“Very,” Felix says, voice warm and sated.  

“Will you stay? The night, I mean? I haven’t got anything on all day, just family dinner in the evening. Which you’re welcome to come to, by the way.”

“Now that I’m officially family?” Felix teases, gasping when Carver pinches his side lightly. “I would love to stay the night, my dear. But Dad and I have arrangements for tomorrow afternoon, so.”

“Say no more,” Carver says. He tips his head and groans as Felix pushes his fingers into his hair. He’s never wanted to say _I love you_ so much in his entire life. But instead  he occupies his mouth with the planes of Felix’s chest and shoulders, tracing the lines of his tattoos until, one after the other, they drop off to sleep.

///

Carver knows something’s up as soon as he steps into his mum’s house. Bethany is often cheery when greeting him, but today she’s like a dose of straight sunshine knocked back in the dead of night at some seedy bar—she wraps her arms around his neck and coerces him into picking her up, which he does, apologizing for Felix’s absence even as they trade cheek kisses. Merrill and Leandra are in the kitchen when he piggybacks her through the house, putting the finishing touches on rogan josh, which is the next clue. Carver likes Indian food just fine (particularly when Felix makes it), but Bethany has a particular fondness for it, especially since she was unable to keep down complex, spicy dishes for so long. The same delighted, energetic mood infests the entire house, and it throws Carver a bit off balance. He feels distinctly left out, and rather than spark a sympathetic reaction of anticipation in him, all it does is sour his mood.

And the morning had started out so beautifully. He’d woken up with Felix in his arms, already awake and palming his own erection through his pants. Carver had taken over and they spent a lazy half-hour trading sleepy, sour kisses as they jerked each other off. Then they’d showered together and moved the couch over to face the window while tea brewed on the hob, eating breakfast wrapped in a blanket and watching the sun rise over the city skyline.

The whole day had been like that, lazy and a little bit magical, until Felix had to leave in the early afternoon to prepare for father-son time. The perfect bubble was popped and Carver had found himself a little off-kilter driving over to his mum’s house, wishing that he could shout from the rooftops that he was in love and, at the same time, that he could go back home and hide in bed where it smelled like _them_ , reliving the past twenty-four hours until Felix came back to stay the night again. He thinks now that he’d much prefer the latter—as much as he wants to tell everyone that he slept with Felix last night, the news now seems too precious to share, like it will shatter irreparably if he gives it voice.

_Everyone’s excited about something and I’m the odd man out_ , he texts Felix while he listens to Bethany talk expansively about her current project, a six-foot wire sculpture that she’s starting to wrap up. _Is it stupid that I feel like they’re keeping secrets?_ Is it stupid that I feel slighted, is what he really wants to say, but it’s stupid and childish so he keeps it to himself. It’s not their fault for not knowing that mountains were moved in his life last night.

There’s no immediate reply—of course there isn’t, father-son time is at a premium these days and Felix likely doesn’t want to waste a minute of it—and Carver puts his phone away before Beth sees and calls him out on it. She doesn’t, but even the thought of it happening is another bite of lemon puckering his mood. He accepts a glass of wine from his mother and tries to tell himself he’s being an idiot.

“Are we toasting something?” he asks, looking suspiciously between Merrill and Bethy. “It’s a little early to be popping questions, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be silly, Carv, it’s nothing like that,” Bethany says primly, though she takes the opportunity to kiss her girlfriend’s cheek anyway. “Why don’t we sit down? I’m starving.”

“How long are you going to make me wait?” he grumbles.

“Long enough. Drink your wine, you look like you need it,” Bethy tells him. Carver suppresses  a sigh and follows the rest to the dining room where plates and silverware have already been set out. His mother pats his arm on the way, giving him a knowing look.

“It’s good news, darling, don’t worry,” she murmurs.

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed from the ear to ear smile.” He’s aiming for light sarcasm, but he doesn’t think he quite makes the mark.

His phone buzzes as he sits down, and he glances at it surreptitiously. _Not stupid. I know what you mean; I don’t like surprises._

“No texting at the table,” Beth sings out, obviously pleased with herself for catching him out. Carver wants to snap back, but he restrains himself. Everyone else look so happy he can’t bring himself to sour the mood.

“Sorry.”

“Pass the food around first,” Leandra instructs. “Then you can share your news.”

_I’m her twin_ , Carver thinks glumly. _I’m supposed to know everything first_. He feels an odd sense of betrayal—Bethy’s always the one he goes to first, but obviously something has been going on behind his back that she hasn’t felt the need to divulge. Still, he dishes up his rice and rogan josh obediently, adding enough flaked pepper to make his nose run—he’s been practicing for Felix’s cooking, which is always twice as spicy as Felix seems to think it is—and takes a determined gulp of wine. Whatever it is, it’s obviously not a bad thing, and he’s determined to join the celebration.

They’re all a few bites in when the bomb drops. Bethany is wriggling on her seat, barely able to hold her fork steady, when she finally takes a deep breath and blurts out, “I’m going to Africa with Anders.”

Carver drops his fork onto his plate into the sudden silence. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been accepted into the Nursing Program at Calenhad,” she says, grinning fit to burst. “And if I keep my marks up, next summer I’ll be going to Nairobi to help train staff at an AIDS clinic.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He stares at her, struck dumb, and it drags on for so long that her smile finally starts to wane. “Are you insane?” he blurts finally, just as she’s opening her mouth. “Bethy, you’ve been in remission for a _year_ , you can’t go haring off to Africa on a whim!”

“It’s not a whim,” she replies, face darkening like storm clouds brewing on the horizon. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, Carv.”

“A while? How long is a bloody while? Why was it such a big secret?”

“It wasn’t! I only just heard back from the program today, and I didn’t want to tell you when I might not get it, because then I would be even more disappointed.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” he says shortly. He knows he’s crossed the bounds of medical concern and straight into overprotective meddling, but he can’t help himself. He and Beth have never been so much as a city apart from one another, and now she wants to go to fucking _Nairobi_? He turns to Leandra, who’s watching the scene unfold with increasing concern. “Mum, I can’t believe you’re allowing this. What if something happens while she’s over there? What if she contracts some kind of disease and it reacts with her medication? What if, god forbid, she gets sick again?”

“Carver, you’re overreacting,” Leandra says calmly, but he steamrolls right over her, terror slowly tightening around his windpipe. If this is what it feels like to have an asthma attack, his sympathy for Felix has just doubled.

“I’m not bloody overreacting! It’s everyone else that seems to be underreacting!” He whirls on Merrill, who’s been sitting very quietly in her chair and staring at her plate. “Merrill, I can’t believe you think this is a good idea.”

“I think it’s a marvelous idea,” Merrill chips in, quiet but determined. She lifts her chin stubbornly and stares him down, green eyes fiery behind her sedate expression. “Bethy’s always wanted to travel, and this would be a wonderful opportunity to learn more in the field.”

“I don’t understand why you aren’t more excited for me,” Bethany says. Her voice shakes a little, the telltale sign that she’s on the verge of angry tears—a trait she hates but has never been able to completely shake. “I thought going to work at an AIDS clinic would matter to you, with Felix—”

“Shut up,” he snarls, springing to his feet. “Bloody hell, Bethy, can’t you keep your damn mouth shut for two seconds?”

Her lips press shut into a white line. “Carv, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t bother.” He steps away and pushes his chair in with enough vigor that the back slams against the table and takes a scrape of varnish off with it. “This little expedition is obviously more important to you than anyone else’s feelings.”

“You’re always so fucking selfish!” Bethany shouts, and the first tear rolls down her cheek, impervious to the angry swipe of her wrist. “What do you want, for me to stay here forever in this house like a little china doll? Because I have new for you, Carver Malcolm Hawke, I’m not a doll, and you’re not our father!”

Silence falls, so thick you could hear a pin drop. Carver wavers a bit as if he’s been struck by a physical blow. “Right.” His voice sounds oddly normal after all that, as if his mum and Merrill aren’t sitting like horrified statues in the face of Bethany’s virulent rage. _Hot tempers run in the family_ , he thinks, though it’s always been him who gets the finger of blame. But suddenly all the fight has left him, and all he feels is cold. All he can think about is Bethany, gone, getting sick in some dusty, godforsaken corner of the globe without Carver there to keep her safe. “I guess I’ve ruined your dinner long enough.”

No one makes a sound as he leaves the room. Every step toward the door is quicker than the last—he hears the scrape of chair legs as he reaches for his coat, and his mum’s low, soothing voice far away behind him as he opens the door. And then he’s free, hands in his pockets, walking briskly down the hill to the tube station with his tongue still hot and tingling from his last mouthful of lamb.

He holds on to his anger until he gets home, and then, as if stepping over the threshold of his apartment has flipped a switch inside his brain, it all evaporates and is replaced by a heavy, cloaking sadness. He replays the dinner over and over in his head, if a fiasco like that could be called dinner. He sees Bethy’s face in his mind like it’s been burned into the tissue indelibly, wrought with fury and accusation. All well deserved.

_You’re not our father._

Not for lack of trying. He’s known it for years, that there’s always a part of him trying to be Malcolm Hawke, part of him trying to make up for the great, gaping hole he left in their lives. But, like a torn stocking put again and again in the wash, he’s only ever managed to shrink it occasionally, leaving it to stretch open again when he isn’t paying attention. And there’s only so many washes and patches a stocking can take before it’s no more useful than unspooled fibers.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he looks in the mirror after using the washroom. His reflection is still as stone, but his eyes are red and wetness streaks his cheeks, and he’s so  _tired_  of trying to fill the shoes of a dead man. Feeling like he’s suffocating, he turns off all the lights and turns on the shower, stripping with numb fingers down to bare skin so that all he can feel is the harsh, needling spray like a bitter Arctic wind against his body. 

“I just want her to be safe,” he whispers to himself, though his words are lost to the stippling of water against the sides of the shower. Somehow, though, he can hear the buzz of his phone against the porcelain sink where he’d left it—just once, just a text, and then another a short while later. Felix, maybe. Or Bethany, trying to apologize. He slams his fist into the glass pane hard enough to shudder the entire cubicle, but holds himself in check. “Don’t be angry,” he whispers, lips speckled with water. “Anger is the symptom, not the disease.”

_Anger is what you feel to hide the hurt_ , Cullen had told him early on, back when they were still meeting every week to talk out the tangled web inside his head.  _Let yourself feel it, and know that it’s only the surface of the problem. It’s what’s underneath that needs to be addressed._

What’s underneath right now is unmistakable: raw, unvarnished, screaming terror at the very idea of Bethany so far away from him. From the womb to adulthood they’ve been within sight of one another almost constantly, and her leukemia diagnosis only cemented that further. Leaving for his own apartment had almost never happened at all—only their mother’s firm insistence, and his own hurt pride, had separated him from the family nest, and only by a distance of a few tube stations. Easily traveled. But it couldn’t last forever. 

The tumult is starting to calm when he registers the door opening and the lights flicking on. He’s on the floor of the shower, sitting with his knees drawn up and his head tipped against the wall—the sudden brightness pricks his eyes awake, and he closes them, hoping like a child that the unwanted thing will disappear. Instead, the shower stall is opened and the water switched off, and soft hands touch him, blazing hot against his chilled skin. 

“Carver. Darling, come on. It’s all right. It’s only me.”

As if Felix was ever  _only_  anything. For Felix he will open his eyes, unfold his stiff limbs and allow himself to be patted dry, every touch of the towel like a clap of thunder dragging him from sleep. For Felix he will put on warm clothes, drink hot tea, lie in bed with his head on his boyfriend’s chest, his fingers spooling through his hair. 

Felix has the most wonderful hands. They massage his scalp, twisting through the damp strands and scraping at the shorter fuzz at his nape and around his ears. They make him feel wanted again. Human. 

_You’re not our father_. 

_I know,_  he thinks tiredly.  _I never was. And I’m never going to be._

“Feeling better?” Felix murmurs after a while, when Carver is himself enough to stretch and rub his eyes and shift to find a more agreeable position. Felix is still dressed in his day clothes, even though it’s well past nine o’clock by now, and the stiff leather of his belt is digging into his stomach.

“Better if you’d take this off,” he grumbles, tugging at the offending item. 

Felix does, and lets the leather coil drop off the side of the bed. Peaches is at the foot of it, Carver realizes, but she hops off to pursue this new and interesting thing, sniffing at it dubiously. Carver watches her, watches the twitch of her tail and the delicate movement of her little nose, and feels inexplicably nostalgic. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” 

He grunts a  _maybe_  sort of noise and rubs his face against Felix’s shoulder. “Did Bethy not tell you?”

“Merrill said something happened between the two of you. She didn’t give me any details.” His nails scrape a long, soothing circle against his upper back, drawing an equator between his shoulder blades. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” 

Carver’s stomach is a leaden lump at the very prospect, but it’s  _Felix_. If he can’t talk to him about it he can’t talk to anyone. “Bethy wants to go to Africa on a nursing trip or something.” And then he has to stop to catch his breath.  _Don’t be angry. Don’t be angry._

“I assume this is the news they were waiting to drop on you?” Felix asks. His voice is gentle and even, like the perfect temperature of a late summer evening in the country, something Carver can sink into and never want to come out again. “That wasn’t very kind of them.”

“They—she didn’t mean to upset me. They weren’t expecting it. Obviously.” He huffs a cracked, unhappy laugh. “Neither was I.”

“Expecting the news?”

“Expecting to… lose it. She’s just always been within arm’s reach, and even when I couldn’t—when I couldn’t  _fix_  her, couldn’t protect her, at least I was _there_. At least I could be that. And what if something happens to her and I’m not there? I would never forgive myself.”

Even as he says it he knows how stupid it sounds. How hypocritical. Just a month ago he’d been telling Felix that his dad wasn’t his responsibility, and now he’s saying much the same thing—and he  _knows_  that Bethy isn’t a doll,  _knows_  she isn’t his to protect, to keep safe. To cage. And Felix, bless him, says nothing about it, doesn’t point fingers, just strokes his hair and lets him get it out of his system. 

The next morning, there’s a text waiting when he plugs in his dead phone.  _I’m sorry_. He types back  _me too_ , and somehow, for now, it’s enough. 


	25. 25.

Carver wakes up alone. His eyes are gritty and his throat is dry and sore, and his jaw aches from how tightly it was clenched last night. The other side of the bed is rumpled, and when he puts his hand out to feel for a shred of warmth, it hits his phone, still plugged in to the outlet on the other side of the bed, and a few more texts from Bethany.

_it was stupid of me not to tell you. b._

_i guess i just wanted something special and secret for myself for once. b._

_which isn’t an excuse, it was still a shitty thing to do. and i’m sorry i yelled at you in front of everyone, i know you hate that. b._

_i guess you went back to sleep, but maybe we can talk about it later. love you baby bro. b._

He vaguely remembers waking up earlier to Felix’s soft breath on his cheek and a text waiting on his phone, but he must have gone back to sleep. He puts his phone down without answering and pushes his face into Felix’s pillow, wondering when he left.

He must drop off again briefly, because the next thing he feels are fingers in his hair. He bundles his pillow closer to his chest and grumbles into it; the mattress dips a little and he can hear Felix’s soft laughter. “Are you awake, darling?”

“Am now.” He tips his head back and sighs as Felix skates his fingers down into his beard. “Thought you’d left.”

“Of course not. As if I’d rather be anywhere else.” His thumb touches the center of his lower lip, and Carver smiles. “Would you like breakfast?”

“Bacon?” Carver asks hopefully, opening his eyes. Felix is wearing one of Carver’s flannels, which is just a little bit oversized on him—charmed, he releases the pillow to wrap himself around Felix’s waist instead, resting his head on his thigh. “Or did you make something already?”

“I can do bacon,” Felix agrees solemnly. “Any other requests?”

“Coffee. And… a kiss.”

“Oh, that one’s easy.” Eyes crinkled in a smile, Felix leans down and kisses him softly, hand still combing through his beard. Carver is a little bit reticent at first, in case his morning breath is terrible, but Felix coaxes his mouth open and laps at the silky inner curve of his lower lip until he succumbs. In spite of the weight still resting on his mind, warmth curls in his belly, and he tightens his hands into Felix’s shirt.

“You’ve already had coffee,” he accuses when they part.

“Er. Sorry?” Felix laughs. “How can I make it up to you?”

For answer, Carver tugs at him until he lies down, rolling them to the center of the bed. He pushes the borrowed flannel up his chest and strokes his ribs until he giggles and tries to writhe out of his grip, and then he burrows him into the mattress and devours his mouth. Felix moans and fists his hair—their position is sort of awkward, Carver half on top of him with one of Felix’s legs pinned beneath his own, but the other bends up and hooks around his waist, and Carver rocks his body into Felix, welcoming the shiver that tingles through every bone and muscle.

“What about bacon?” Felix whispers when the kiss finally breaks. His cheeks are full of color and his lips are dark and swollen—Carver has never thought less of breakfast in his life.

“I can wait. Can you?”

“Fuck yes.”

Carver groans and sinks his teeth into Felix’s collarbone. “You look fantastic in my clothes, but I really want to see you naked now.”

Felix shoves at him until he rolls over on his back and follows, perched up on his hips like he was made to be there. He’s only got on pants underneath the excessive drape of the flannel shirt, and he starts unbuttoning from the bottom up. Throat thick, Carver reaches between them and palms the weight of his erection in his pants. Felix rocks forward into the contact and sighs, chin tipped back a little so that every notch and angle of his throat is exposed. Carver can see the little pink mark he left like a smear of old lipstick, and he grips Felix’s thighs hard enough to turn the skin white, dizzy with want.

“You feel so good,” he whispers. “Tell me what to do for you.”

Felix reaches the last button and shakes the shirt off, running his palms down his chest and rubbing at his nipples. “Touch me, please.”

Carver squeezes him again through his pants and then tugs on the waistband to get beneath. He gives a few leisurely pulls, admiring the way the foreskin slips over the shiny head and back again, the way his touch makes Felix’s mouth drop open and his chest flush red with want. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and Felix bites his thumb, rocking his hips back to grind his arse down on Carver’s prick.

“Fuck,” he gasps, leaning back with his hands braced on Carver’s thighs for a better angle. Even through their pants Carver can feel himself easing into the crease of Felix’s arse, and it sends a surge of arousal through him like a bolt of lightning. Felix lets his chin drop to his chest and he moves his hips with more purpose, back and forth with a slow, deep rhythm that matches the pace of Carver’s hand. A dollop of precum squeezes out and rolls down Carver’s thumb and Felix whines. “Fuuuuuuck baby, that feels so good.”

“Jesus.” Carver’s breath rasps in his chest, and he licks his lips, wanting desperately to feel the tight clench of Felix’s body around him.

As if reading his mind, Felix huffs a strangled laugh and leans forward, rocking into his fist with more purpose. “God, I want you to fuck me so badly,” he whispers. When Carver lunges up to kiss him again, he meets him halfway in an eager, messy clash of lips and tongues, gripping Carver’s shoulders for stability. “Carv…”

“Yeah? You want that?” He slides his free hand around to grope his arse, sliding under his pants to touch bare skin. Felix arches his back and whimpers, teeth bared and white against his brown skin as Carver massages the tight furl of his hole. “You want my prick inside you, baby?”

“Yes. But—oh fuck, Carver, I’m not going to last.”

“Me either,” Carver admits, working his hand more quickly. Felix’s quick, short breaths have taken on pitch and sound, and for every one that falls from his lips he feels himself growing closer to the edge. “C’mere, Fee, let me feel you.”

With some maneuvering he frees Felix of his pants and tugs his own down around his thighs, and leans over for a dollop of lube. Felix leans up a little on his knees, eyes black, and Carver slips a hand between their bodies to slick his hole. He’s tight and hot, but desperate—he bats Carver’s hand away from his cock to take himself in hand, leaving Carver to grip his thigh for stability as he works the lube all along the crease and back, warming him up. He traps his tongue between his teeth and his eyes go unfocused as Carver works him patiently, finally coaxing a finger inside. His cock jumps against Felix’s thigh at the breach.

“Good?” he whispers, as if Felix’s sounds of pleasure aren’t proof enough.

“Deeper. Please.” Felix ducks his head and groans, rocking back on Carver’s hand until he’s as deep as he can get, the rest of his fingers curled tight against his body. It’s been a while since he’s done it from this angle—he’s intimately familiar with the location of his own prostate, but every man’s body is a little different—and then, suddenly, he feels it, already swollen and firm against his probing finger. Felix cries out and works his cock harder. “Oh fuck, Carv, that’s it baby, right there.”

“I can’t wait to pound you with my cock,” Carver gasps. He can feel the drool of precum he’s leaving on his own thigh, and his prick throbs with neglect, but he can’t bring himself to let go of Felix. “You’re going to feel amazing.”

“Nngh. _Jesus_ —hang on, let me…” He leans forward, reaching for the lube now balanced precariously on the bedside table. He snatches it and squeezes a bit into his hand before reaching down behind himself and curling a hand around Carver’s dick. “Oh god, I want you inside me. Soon. Promise?”

“Easiest promise of my life,” Carver gasps, laughing a little, but it turns into a groan as Felix lays his prick flat against his belly and sits on it, rutting his perineum along Carver’s shaft. It’s not quite the same as being inside him, but the weight of his body and the slick pressure of his arse cheeks are still enough to wrench him closer to the edge. “Jesus _fuck_ , Fee…”

“Next best thing.” He grins and bends down, noses brushing as he ruts on top of him, fist flying on his own prick. “Baby, I’m close.”

“Cum on me, then,” Carver says, hands sinking into his arse to move him right where it feels best. With every pass he can feel his hole against him, and it’s a terrible, wonderful tease. Above him, Felix’s cheeks bloom an even darker red and a bead of sweat slides down his temple, mouth open and eyes unfocused as he chases orgasm. As Carver watches, the muscles in his arms and belly go taut, and then he feels the wet spatter of semen on his skin as Felix comes in a few long, drawn-out pulses.

“Mmmmhh, fuck.” Felix drops his chin to his chest and works his hand a little bit longer, oozing a few more drops of cum onto Carver’s navel. A part of him wants to draw his fingers through the mess and lick it off, but he refrains, knowing Felix has his limits even now.

“Gorgeous,” he whispers instead, rolling his hips up a little in a gentle frot. “God, Fee, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Felix bends and hides his face in Carver’s shoulder. Carver takes his weight gladly, rubbing his back and kissing his neck—the shift in position has slid his cock into the crease of Felix’s thigh, right beside his bollocks, and he restrains himself from fucking the narrow space in case he’s oversensitive. But Felix lifts his head to kiss his neck and breathes, “Can I suck you?”

His belly swoops, and a whimper escapes him without quite meaning to. Felix just laughs at him and crawls down his body , taking his prick in hand and lipping at the head. The frantic pace of their earlier lovemaking seems to slow and Carver sinks his head back into the bedding, letting his legs sprawl wide and his hands clench and unclench slowly in the sheets. Felix bobs his head slowly, taking in the head and the first inch or so while his hand takes care of the rest. Carver feels like warm butter, soft and hot and lazy—he scrapes Felix’s cropped hair and shifts his hips on the mattress, not really rocking up, just enjoying the slide of his lips and the texture of his tongue.

The build is slow, and he has plenty of time to warn Felix when he feels himself getting close. But Felix just looks at him from under his lashes, mouth stretched around his girth, and pumps his hand with more purpose. “Baby,” Carver stammers, thighs straining to keep control. “Fee…”

Another inch disappears inside his mouth, tongue curling against the frenulum, and Carver is lost. He exhales a groan as he comes, sheets creaking in between his fingers, and when it’s over his breaths come harsh and quick as his body shakes in the aftermath.

He looks up in time to see Felix wiping a trace of cum from the corner of his mouth and he groans. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“But you liked it,” Felix says impishly. When Carver reaches for him he stretches out against his side, thigh hooked over Carver’s knee and his head pillowed perfectly on his shoulder. He brings his hand up to pet Carver’s chest and he hums contentedly. “Carv…”

“Mmh?”

Hesitantly, drawing circles on his sternum with light fingers, he asks, “Are you all right?”

“Fucking fantastic, at the moment.”

“I didn’t mean that.” Felix props himself up on one arms to look into his face, expression rumpled and serious, but before he can speak Carver’s phone starts to buzz against the mattress. Carver’s belly tightens unpleasantly.

“Oh. That.” He sighs and reaches around him to grab it, kissing his shoulder on the way. “I guess I should be grateful she didn’t call a few minutes earlier.”

“You don’t have to take it,” Felix says as he checks the caller ID. It’s actually his mum, not Bethy, which was his second guess. Fen would have been his third.

“Yeah, I do,” he says, and hits _accept call_. “Hey, Mum.”

“Carver. Good morning, sweetheart.” Her voice is a little raspy, which either means she didn’t get much sleep last night or she’s just had a cigarette, and as much as he hates to think of her worrying away the wee hours, he _really_ hopes it’s not the latter. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Of course you didn’t, it’s…” He pulls his phone away from his ear for half a moment to check the time. “…almost eleven o’clock. Everything okay?”

“Well I don’t know. Is it?”

Carver swallows. “Is Beth there?”

There’s a bit of a pause, and then his mother says, more quietly, “She’s in the garden, digging up a storm. She really is sorry, Carver—and so am I, for that matter. I should have seen how this would hurt you and prevented her from being secretive.”

“It’s not your job to be a mother _and_ an oracle. And she’s a big girl, anyway, she won’t be prevented from doing anything she doesn’t want to do.”

“A mother is an oracle by nature, my dear,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “Do I take this to mean that you’ve forgiven her?”

He takes a moment to examine himself. “I mean. There was never any question of _that_. She’s my sister.”

“But you’re still angry.”

“A little, yeah. Why the game of twenty questions? Isn’t it a little early for the Spanish Inquisition?” A note of irritability has snuck into his voice in spite of the warm hormone flush of orgasm, and he feels a tiny peck against his shoulder where Felix has placed a consolatory kiss. He softens. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m still upset, but I think that’s for Bethy and me to talk out. Eventually. No offense.”

“If you’re sure,” Leandra says uncertainly. “I worry, you know.”

“Too much.”

“No such thing. Comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”

There’s a moment or two of peaceful quiet, with Felix breathing against him and a waft of content washing through him, muting the sting of Bethy’s news. “Aren’t you worried about her, doing this?” he asks after a bit. Felix stirs against him and Carver loops his arm more firmly around his shoulders, holding him close like a living security blanket.

“Of course I am. And I admit I tried to convince her otherwise, but she wasn’t having any of it. And I know I can’t hold on to her forever, as much as it hurts to admit it.” Her sigh crackles down the line. “I’ve been taking care of her for her entire life. Of course it won’t be easy. But the two of you share a special bond—I can’t compare what I felt at the time to what you felt last night.”

“Plus you don’t have the Hawke temper,” he puts in, earning a wry chuckle.

“That is true. I had forgotten that Bethany inherited a little bit of that. Listen, darling, take your time. She understands that you need space sometimes to work things through. I just wanted to call you and make sure…”

“That I was still alive?” Carver quips, only half joking. He remembers vividly the crash that totaled his sister’s car almost a year ago, and how lucky he is that he got off so lightly. By the tone of Leandra’s answering hum, she’s remembering it too.

“Among other things.” A pause. “Is Felix with you?”

He must be able to hear a bit of the conversation, because at the sound of his name, Felix tenses. Carver draws a soothing line down his back and answers levelly, “Yeah, he’s here.”

“Will you tell him thank you for me?”

“For what, putting up with my drama?”

“For taking care of you,” Leandra says firmly, quieting him. “He’s good for you, Carver. Hang onto him.”

Carver feels the weight of Felix against his side very keenly, all of a sudden. He turns his head and presses a kiss to his brow, throat tight. “I intend to.”

“Good. If I learned anything being married to Malcolm, it was that you should never waste the time you’re given. You’ve been alone for so long, darling, and if Felix is the person you want beside you for the rest of your life, don’t hesitate. Be happy.”

Felix is holding his breath, and Carver’s ears burn with embarrassment—not because he doesn’t believe her, but because Felix has to hear this second-hand, as if Carver hasn’t been mulling over it obsessively in his head for months. “Well we aren’t going to elope, Mum, I can promise you that,” he says, forcing out a jolly tone. “But I think it’s a little early to talk wedding plans.”

“I don’t need a wedding, sweetheart,” she says, still painfully serious. “From you _or_ Bethany. Or Marian, heaven help her.” A gusty sigh. “I just want my children to be happy.”

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I _am_ happy, Mum.”

“Good. Good. I’m glad.” Another pause, this one longer and fraught with unspoken words. Carver is gathering himself to end the conversation when his mother does it for him. “It looks like I’m needed in the garden now, sweetheart.”

“Isn’t it too cold to be mucking around planting things?”

“It’s just about the right time, actually,” Leandra says with laughter in her voice at his naïveté. He knows they had a massive vegetable garden in Canada, but he can’t remember the process of cultivating it, only the harvest. “Have a good day, sweetheart. Give your Felix a kiss from me.”

“ _Mum_.”

“On the cheek!” she protests, giggling, and she’s still laughing when he hangs up on her.

“Well?” Felix asks, sounding amused. He pops up and presents his cheek to be kissed, which Carver does, abruptly and as brief as he can make it. When he pulls back Felix is grinning at him, entirely unselfconscious as if the entire conversation with his mum had never happened. He’s not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“Bacon?” he asks instead, making a pleading face. Felix snorts.

“For eyes like those, all the bacon in the world.”

///

Felix presides over the hob as promised, still tingling from good sex and feeling only a _little_ bit awkward about the conversation he’d overheard during Carver’s phone call with his mum. Goodness knows she’d meant well, but he knows he wasn’t meant to overhear it, and he’s not really sure how Carver feels about it. He’s certainly _acting_ as though nothing is amiss, stealing bits of bacon and fried tomato while he sips his coffee and doing his best to drive Felix crazy with little touches and kisses. Whatever his protests that he was a sourpuss in the mornings, Felix had yet to see the evidence. _Maybe it’s love_ , the optimistic voice inside him suggests. He really, really wants to listen to the optimist.

But the realist in him says that they’ve only been formally dating for just shy of three months, and both of them are practical men, not giddy teenagers fumbling over their first backseat blowjob after the prom. The _sex_ may be ‘adolescent,’ according to Dorian’s wilder expectations for their love life—as detailed to him multiple times over coffee within questionable earshot of the students frequenting the café on campus—but the relationship is solid. Mature. A natural extension of their established friendship, only with more kissing and erections.

Speaking of which. Breakfast (or lunch, at this hour) has only just been had, eaten on the couch off the same plate with their legs tangled together, when he feels the first inkling of arousal watching Carver suck his fingers clean of bacon grease. _You’re disgusting_ , he thinks firmly to himself, wondering if he should revisit the notion that they _weren’t_ adolescents. He can’t remember the last time his libido was so quick on the draw, and it’s a bit disorienting.

“I’m going to shower,” he announces, gathering their dishes and abandoned coffee mugs as a ploy to hide the hard-on developing in his borrowed joggers. At least Carver’s clothes were a bit roomy on him, giving him some leeway in that department—he hopes.

“Let me clean up,” Carver says. He bounds to his feet, entirely ignorant of his predicament, and rids Felix of his burden, taking the whole lot to the sink. “You cooked, it’s the least I can do.”

Quietly relieved that company wasn’t offered, Felix pads on his own to the washroom and starts the hot water. He contemplates turning it to cold and decides he doesn’t have the constitution for it. He debates taking care of things himself, but that idea is scrapped when Carver pokes his head in the crack in the door and announces he’s going next. Felix rushes through the rest of his shower schedule and passes him in the doorway coming, pausing only for a quick peck on the lips and an appreciative glance over his towel-wrapped form.

He goes as far as putting on pants before he decides he doesn’t feel like doing anything else. The bed is still rumpled from their earlier activities, and he eyes it for a moment before sinking down into it face-first. It smells like sex and the musk of Carver’s body, and his prick, mostly soft now against his thigh, plumps a little. He rubs his face into the sheets and sighs, longing for firm hands on his body and a voice in his ear saying sweetly _I’m here to stay._

 _Hang on to him_ , Leandra had said, and Carver had replied _I intend to_ with utmost sincerity. Felix hopes he meant it. He certainly wants to stay, for as long as possible. Forever. A premature wish, perhaps, but already they’ve been through a crisis or two and come out on the other side, still together. And now that they’ve become more intimate physically, sleeping together and making love whenever they feel like it, cooking and eating together… it’s easy to imagine spending the rest of his life this way.

The water shuts off in the washroom, and he rolls over onto his back, one leg dangling off the side of the bed and the other bent in a vain attempt to hide his budding arousal. He closes his eyes and imagines it. Carver’s back from the ’shop after a half day, and he brought back brunch for him and Felix to share. Felix has finished grading all his papers and is napping, and soon Carver will come in and kiss him awake, telling him to come eat while it’s still hot—but Felix will drag him down with a hand to the back of his neck and kiss him until they’re both breathless, and Carver will clutch him and whisper _I love you_ into his ear, and he will mean it. Utterly.

A touch on his ankle startles him out of his fantasy, and he looks up into Carver’s smiling face, noting the neat twist of the towel around his waist and the flecks of water still clinging to his pale skin. “Hello my lazy man,” Carver says, running his fingertips fondly along the inside of his propped-up knee. Felix makes a small sound of protest but he doesn’t move away, blushing, wondering if Carver has some inkling of what he had been thinking about.

“Hello. How was your shower?”

“Fine. Hot and steamy.” He winks, gripping Felix’s knee a little tighter. Felix hums and widens his thighs, reaching up with his other hand to take Carver’s wrist. 

“C’mere, please. I want a kiss.”

“Oh, fine, if you insist.” Carver tightens his abdominals and falls like a log, provoking a squeal of bitten-off surprise from Felix—but he catches himself at the last minute on his braced arms, palms digging into the bedding to either side of Felix’s head, and he laughs, a puff of warm air against his temple. “Change your mind already?” 

“Berk,” Felix murmurs fondly. He reaches up, cupping Carver’s face between his palms, and draws him down for a brief kiss. “Hmm.” 

“Hmmmm what?” Carver whispers. 

“Hmm, I think I’d like another.”

Carver snickers and lowers himself to his elbows, bringing their chests flush and their mouths together. Felix hugs him around the neck, hips rising slightly off the bed as his tongue traces the inside of Carver’s mouth, but they meet only empty air and he gives a huff of frustration. “Carv...”

“Hmm?” He kisses his lower lip again and then his cheek, tracing the line of his beard with his nose. The sensation sparks a ripple of shudders down his body, and he groans. 

“You’re impossible.”

“And _you’re_ insatiable.” He mouths along the side of his neck right where it’s most tender, and Felix shudders. _How_ does he do this—play him like an instrument, every part of his body tingling and awake where Carver touches him? Felix tangles his fingers in Carver’s hair and holds him there, kissing him deeply. He can feel Carver’s prick thickening against the inside of his thigh through the towel and he loves it, loves that they have this effect on each other, a constant feedback loop of sensation and desire until they can’t bear to keep their hands off each other.

“Want you,” Carver murmurs, nuzzling the side of his face. Felix squeezes his eyes shut, heart too full and his blood racing at an impossible clip through his pliant body. “Fee?”

He is overcome. Carver’s weight hovering over him, his heat and closeness, the tender expression on his face, are welling up inside him like snowmelt in spring, loosening his tongue and stoking the coals in his breast to flame. He leans up and presses the words to Carver’s cheek like a secret. “I love you.” 

Carver inhales and draws back, eyes bright and searching. Felix tries not to look away. For a moment he says nothing, just looks at him with those lively eyes, and then he smiles. “Really?”

“I... yes.” Suddenly embarrassed, he pulls his hands away from Carver’s shoulders, wishing their faces weren’t so close. “Is that all right? It’s not—too soon?”

“Too soon? God, no. I’ve loved you for ages, Fee, longer than I even knew. Longer than I wanted to admit.” Carver’s cups his face in one hand, rough and calloused but so, so gentle, and he eases himself down onto the other elbow so that he’s laying against Felix rather than over him. “Is _that_ all right?” 

“Yes of course it is,” Felix whispers. His heart is thumping in his chest, just this side of uncomfortably fast, and he suddenly _needs_ Carver, desperately, with a hunger that seizes him in its slavering jaws and refuses to let go. Carver seems to feel it too—he kisses him without reservation and lets Felix take the lead, only protesting when Felix drags him down to lay entirely atop him.

“Wait,” he breathes, propping himself up, “aren’t I too heavy? I don’t want to crush you.”

“I like it. I know you won’t hurt me, Carv.”

His blue eyes darken and he covers him again, laying just the right amount of weight on him. Need surges through his body, flushing his face and thundering in his chest, and when Carver tugs off his towel and reaches for the lube he doesn’t even hesitate, just kicks off his pants and opens his legs for Carver to kneel between.

Even so, Carver asks, “Is this all right?” and doesn’t proceed until Felix has thoroughly assured him of his desires. He grabs a pillow from the head of the bed and wedges it under Felix’s hips, and Felix parts his thighs for Carver to settle between, lips finding the tender flesh of an inner thigh and his slick fingers finding the dark pout of his hole.

And it’s perfect. Carver is gentle and attentive, responding to every noise and kissing every inch of skin, sucking on his bollocks and nuzzling his perineum until he’s entirely calm and comfortable. Felix is content to lie there, one hand on his belly and the other tangled loose in Carver’s hair, just watching. He licks and bites at his lips as Carver massages the furled muscle with long, generous strokes, sliding from tailbone to balls and back again. Every pass over Felix’s perineum has him whining and tilting his hips for more, and gradually his hole loosens to welcome one calloused finger. Even with all the slick Carver hesitates, forehead wrinkling with concern, but Felix reaches down to keep his hand in place when he goes to reach for more.

“It’s fine. This is fine, Carv, oh Jesus please keep going.”

Carver swallows a groan and obeys. His finger probes deeper, opening him by increments—when he finds his prostate, Felix whines high in his throat and his belly tightens, arching into his hand. Carver massages the spot carefully, working Felix into a red-faced, hoarse-breathed frenzy.

His cock is drooling a thick rope of precum onto his belly when Carver finally takes pity on him and slides a second finger inside. “Holy fuck,” Felix whispers, clenching again, and for a second he thinks he’s about to come. But he doesn’t, just slowly unwinds and covers his face with his hands as Carver twists two digits in and out in a slow, spiraling slide. “Fucking _fuck_ Carver, your fingers are magic.”

“You feel so good,” Carver whispers, breathing the words into the crease of Felix’s spread thigh. He rubs his bearded cheek against the tender skin there, slips his tongue out to taste. “God, look at you. So open for me.” He hooks his fingers gently and drags them back out in tandem, the pads sliding over Felix’s prostate as they go. Felix arches his back and cries out, barely muffled into his palms. “You want more, sweetheart?”

“Nng. Please.”

“Pass me the lube, then.” He doesn’t push his fingers back in while he waits for Felix to obey, even though his hole feels slack and open; instead he teases the tip of one finger around the rim, so light and soft that Felix can barely feel it. Felix squirms but doesn’t move away, and then he manages to grab hold of the little bottle and pass it down his body. “That’s it. Perfect. You’re perfect.”

Felix can tell that he’s shaking a little as he twists three fingers into him, freshly slicked with lube and pressed into as cone-like a shape as he can make them. It’s a bit of a snug fit, so he doesn’t push in all the way, just rocks in and out gently as Felix pants and passes light fingertips over the head of his own cock. He lifts one foot for a wider stretch and braces it against Carver’s shoulder, clenching around him—Carver looks wrecked, his own cock fat and jutting away from his body, a perfect pink color at the head that Felix longs to get inside his mouth.

But Carver has other plans. When his fingers move easily past the resistance of his body, he grabs another dollop and slicks his cock generously. Then he glances at the bedside table and pauses. “Condom?”

Felix takes a moment to catch his breath. He waits for the spike of fear, the anxiety that used to dog his heels, but none comes. He shakes his head. “Just you. Please.”

“All right.”

The first press of Carver inside him is just a little bit uncomfortable. He’s never tried anal before, and Carver is _big_ , even after loosening him up with his fingers. But Carver is on high alert, waiting for the slightest sign of pain, and he moves slowly, waiting for Felix to relax before pushing in again. At some point during the process the discomfort subsides and heat returns to his pelvis, coaxing his softening cock back to full hardness. He tightens his core muscles experimentally and Carver gasps.

“All right?”

“I think I should be the one asking _you_ that,” Carver says, strained. “Fucking… _Christ_ you feel good.”

“You feel good, too,” Felix tells him, slipping his foot off Carver’s shoulder and holding his thigh back against his shoulder for a better look. He can see where they’re joined, now, just an inch or two shy from Carver being fully seated, and it’s electrifying. He has a sudden, unbidden desire to take a photo of them like this, in the first awkward, brilliant moments of connection, and he clenches again, relishing the thick heat of Carver inside him.

“Fuck. Look at you.” Carver nudges forward and back again, stretching him a little more. “Is this good? This position?”

“Come closer,” Felix instructs, gasping when Carver obeys, kneeling farther up between his legs and one hand curling around his prick.

“Like this?”

“Yeah. _Fuck_ yeah.”

Carver groans and moves again, and again—at first it’s just shallow pushes, gentle movement that’s more relaxing than stimulating. Then he pulls out and thrusts in again in earnest, and the angle hits him just right to send his hands sprawling out for the nearest thing to grab. The sheets, at first, and then when Carver bends to kiss his chest and throat, his hair, holding him close as he fucks him gently into the mattress.

The sensation is overwhelming. Not just the penetration, although that’s really fucking incredible in its own right, but the entire experience: Carver’s scent, the feel of his skin, the sounds he makes, like bitten-off groans that he tries in vain to swallow. “I love you,” he gasps to blanket the silence in between breaths. Carver’s face screws up with emotion and he buries kisses along the slope of his neck and shoulder, moving just a little faster, a little deeper. Felix’s body welcomes him, now, not even a trace of discomfort as their skin slaps together, regular as a metronome until Carver shifts a bit and finds a better angle. Felix is making noise, too—drawn-out sighs that barely vibrant in his throat they’re so quiet.

“Please,” Carver says against his jaw, and Felix turns his head for a kiss, sloppy and full of teeth.

“What do you need?”

“Again. Say it again. _Please_.”

“I love you,” Felix repeats through an irrepressible grin. He tucks his legs more firmly against Carver’s undulating flanks and cups his face, letting his body roll and shake ungrounded with every thrust. “I love you. Darling…”

Carver snaps his hips forward and scoops a hand under his arse, massaging, feeling the tension in his glutes and hamstring. “ _Fee_. Fuck, you’re wonderful. I love you so fucking much, I _adore_ you—”

Felix feels his breath catch in his throat and he’s suddenly very close to the edge. His hands turn white-knuckled on Carver’s shoulders and he closes his eyes against the onslaught. _I adore you_. Just thinking them again inside his head sends a rush of sensation prickling through his body, and though his cock is now largely neglected, stimulated only by the grind of Carver’s abdomen against him, it’s enough.

He shouts Carver’s name when he cums. It’s different from any other orgasm he’s ever had, and he’s not sure whether it’s the sex or the _I love you_ whispered in his hair. When it’s over he’s trembling and weak as a newborn lamb, quickly growing tender and overstimulated. Carver seems to recognize this without being told and he pulls out gently, rubbing his loose hole afterward. When he finally manages to look down, it’s to see Carver kneeling between his thighs, heavy-lidded and on the edge of orgasm himself, fisting his cock with vigor. Felix’s own mess is considerable, even beforehand, but then Carver bows forward and cums on Felix’s belly, and in spite of the delicious lethargy in his limbs he’s twitching to wash up.

“Hang on,” Carver gasps, still shaking as he stumbles upright. “I’ll be right back.”

Felix clenches his fists to ward off the clamminess crawling over his skin, but Carver is as good as his word. He returns with two wet flannels and a dry towel, which he uses to clean him off and pat him dry after, rubbing briskly until his stomach is pink and tender and perfectly clean. He bends and kisses his navel when he’s done, and Felix pets his hair in thanks.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs as Carver settles down and pulls him into his arms.

“You deserve it. Every smidgeon. Mmh.” His next word blur into silence as Felix kisses him soundly, licking into his mouth and sucking on his tongue when he’s slow to respond. “Easy, sweetheart, I can barely feel my face.”

Felix giggles and subsides, cuddling close. It’s not cold in the room, per se, but the sweat of exertion is beginning to cool on his skin and he wants to be warm. With some maneuvering, Carver navigates them both under the covers and scoops him up again, snuggled close still flushed and smelling of each other.

As if on cue, Carver’s phone buzzes once. He grunts a protest and pushes his nose into Felix’s neck. “Nope.”

Felix quivers with silent laughter. “It could be Beth.”

“Don’t want to get up. Not yet.” He kisses his shoulder, right where a cluster of freckles forms the Orion constellation, framed by a coiling vine with a wickedly sharp thorn amongst the flowers. “Five more minutes.”

“Only five?” Felix teases.

“As many as you want.” Carver puts his head back down, eyelashes fluttering against his neck. Felix closes his eyes, too, and hopes the next five minutes are the longest of his life.


	26. 26.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is reconciliation and a celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even want to know how long it's been since I've updated, but woooooooowee I needed that break. And we're back and at 'em! I foresee another whole chapter and an epilogue at LEAST, if not more; and, of course, plenty of outtakes after that. This story has been a journey and I'm sorry for the delay in drawing it to a close. Real life has been crazy (good crazy), and I haven't had much of the spirit or energy for writing. So hopefully this chapter is welcome! Lots of fluff and adorableness, also some very, very minor dom/sub stuff. 
> 
> ALSO! Stonelions did this wonderful depiction of the photo Fen took of Felix and Carver at Pride, the one he shows him on his birthday in Greece. I'll put it in that chapter, but [here's](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B_dSaPzeSlf4VHFvSmcwZ0h0MF9BVVhiQzJJeFh1MHU5WWJZ/view?usp=sharing) the link for those who are curious.

Bethany has curled her hair. It’s just barely to her jaw, now, a little longer in the back than in the front, and the ends coil in loose waves that smell of coconut when he gets close enough to kiss her cheek. It reminds him of Greece, and those stupid coconuts they’d bought from the supermarket, and his throat gets thick as he sits opposite her.   

“Hey.”  

“Hey.”  

Their feet kick together under the table. Carver distinctly recalls a moment not dissimilar to this, when they were children; Beth had teased him on the playground at school, and he retaliated that night by sticking her pigtails to the headboard with a stapler. She rolled over in the middle of the night and woke the whole house screaming, and their father sat them down at the kitchen table, one across from the other, and told them they weren’t going back to bed until they apologized.   

Carver had broken first. He looks at her little paper-white hands, folded neatly on the table and nearly swamped by the generous sleeves of her knit jumper, and breaks again.   

“I’m sorry, Bethy.”  

She visibly winces, chin tucking down toward her chest in consternation. “I’m sorry, too. I…”  

“I think you should go to Africa,” Carver blurts before she can get any further. “I already forget where, but you should go. If that’s what you want.”  

“I mean, I… I might be rubbish at it anyway, I might not even be able to go…”  

“You won't be rubbish. I know it. You're never rubbish at anything you set your mind to. And I can shut my mouth and get over it, so don’t worry about sparing my feelings.” He feels a little bitter as he says it, and even though he tries to swallow it down, she’s his bloody _twin_ , and she can read everything that he tries to hide, just like she always has.   

“But I don’t _want_ you to grin and bear it. That’s what you’ve been doing for years, like you have to be all stoic and the _man of the family_ , or some bullshit like that. I know it’s hard for you.” She heaves a great sigh and rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I talked to Mum about it last night. And this morning. I’m not completely stupid, Carv, I know you’ve given up a lot ever since I got sick. But you don’t have to _keep_ giving. It’s okay to ask for something back.”  

“Ask for what?” he mumbles, thrown off balance by this turn in the conversation. “There’s nothing you have that I want. I mean—you don’t have to _give_ me anything, or make up for anything.”  

“Well, what if I want to?” She folds her arms on the table, staring him down with their mother’s amber-colored eyes. “I’ll probably spend a lifetime doing it, but you’re part of the reason I have a life to live at all, so I think it’s a fair trade.”  

“Now you’re just being dramatic. That’s because of the doctors.”  

“You gave me your stem cells, Carv. And I _know_ you were sick as a dog for a week, so don’t pretend it wasn’t any skin off your back.”  

“Goddammit, I told Fen not to say anything.”  

“It was Merrill, actually,” she corrects with a spark of humor in her eye. “I get girlfriend perks now.”  

“Hmph." He folds his arms on the table and eyes the pitted surface of the wood, well-shined and polished but showing its age beneath the honey-brown veneer. "The point stands, though. I don't know what I would want from you." 

"Well it doesn't have to be any specific _thing_. And you don't have to decide right away. Just..." She bites her lower lip and sinks back in her chair, breathing in deep. "I really, really want to go on this trip. But if it's going to be too much—" 

"Don't even make the offer," he interrupts, cutting her off at the pass. "I want you to go." The words stick in his throat a little, and he chokes, but he gets them out anyway. "I do." 

She eyes him from across the table with a little half-smile, so reminiscent of their mother that he suddenly feels very young, a scabby boy with grass stains all in his clothes waiting for a reprimand that won't ever come. "I know. And thank you for saying so. But it'll be a while, anyway—you'll have time to get used to the idea. And maybe it won't ever work out. But... I really hope it will." 

"It will." He reaches across the table and takes her hands, small and frail in his own. "I love you, Bethy." 

"I love you too, little brother." She grins when he snorts derisively. "What do you want to drink?" 

"Something stiff," he mutters, and snickers when she smacks his arm. "I'll have whatever you're having." 

"You don't know what I'm having." 

"Doesn't matter, we have the same taste buds." 

"That's not how that works, Carv," she tells him, but she gets up and goes to the counter and he lets her. Paying for coffee is a tiny way to make it up to him, but he'll let her do it. And, knowing her, she'll come back with two enormous, frothy, sugary things that he'll barely be able to choke down, but he'll drink it anyway. Because it's Bethy.  

///

In late May, Gereon goes back to work—on a much more restricted, well-monitored schedule—and Felix is a wreck. Carver comes over at Dorian’s request to find him buried in a stack of student papers at the Pavus-Rutherford kitchen table, brandishing a red pen and threatening to fail the entire class. Dorian is cradling his glass of wine like a lifeline and making commiserating noises; as soon as Carver enters, he makes his escape, clapping him on the shoulder with a _good luck_ muttered in his ear. Carver clears his throat and sits on the bench next to his boyfriend facing out, pressing their arms together.   

“Hey. That bad?”  

“They’re all idiots,” Felix grumbles, though it’s half-hearted. His tirade continues for a few more minutes before winding down, and he pushes the stack of papers away and buries his face in his hands with a sigh. “I don’t know how any of them got accepted into this program in the first place.”   

Carver thinks those students are lucky they didn't have Felix on the screening board in this state, but he doesn't say so. Instead he straddles the bench beside him and tugs him in to lean against his chest, stroking his back in wide circles until a little of the tension starts to fade from his body. "I think you need a break, love." 

"I can't, these are due tomorrow and—" 

"I didn't mean right now. I mean, yes, take five minutes, walk around the garden. But after the semester's over, I think we should do something. Get out of town." He pets the nape of Felix's neck and smiles when he makes an inadvertent noise, the way a dove coos when it's stroked the right way. "What do you think? A little vacation?" 

"I... but Dad..." 

"Will be fine. I'm sure Dorian will be happy to look in on him." He leans down and kisses the spot right behind his ear. Felix twitches in his arm and grumbles, pushing him away haflheartedly. "Fee..." 

"Can we talk about it later?" he asks plaintively.  

"'Course. Did you want to walk a bit? Stretch your legs?" 

"No, I'll be all right. I'm almost done." 

He's already turning back to the papers, red pen held with a little more care. Carver decides to cut his losses. He stands from the bench and gives the nape of his neck a gentle squeeze. "I'll be outside when you're done." 

Felix grunts in acknowledgement, and Carver heads out the sliding doors to the little patio that overlooks the river. Cullen's golden retriever is lounging in the sun on the grass a little ways away; when she catches sight of him, her tail thumps with increasing frequency until she finally gives in and bounds to her feet, prancing over for pets. He crouches down and rubs her ears while she pants happily in his face.  

"Hawke." 

He stands up and turns to see Cullen coming toward him from the greenhouse, hands black with dirt and a yellow curl sticking sweatily to his forehead. "Rutherford."  

They shake hands in spite of the mess and Cullen cocks his head toward the house. "How's he doing?" 

"Felix? Nose to the grindstone, I can't shake him out of it." He dusts his hands off and shoves them in his pockets, looking out over the gentle slope to the waterline where Cullen has diligently laid layers of stone to keep the shoreline tidy. "D'you think he'll be upset?" 

"Upset about what?" 

They both jump a little and turn, Carver with a guilty kickstart to his heartbeat. Felix is standing on the edge of the patio, looking tired now rather than manic, with his glasses pushed up into his hair and one sleeve rumpled around his elbow. "I changed my mind about the walk," he explains with a tiny shrug. Carver would almost believe him, except that Dorian is standing on the other side of the glass grumpily, as if making sure Felix is really staying outside.  

"I'll just be in the greenhouse," Cullen says blandly, and retreats, leaving Carver staring slightly awkwardly at Felix's spit-shine shoes.  

"Carv?" 

"Nothing bad," he says hastily, nearly tripping over himself to clear his name. "Just, I thought... I thought you needed a break. So I, um, might have booked us a weekend in the country, at a bed and breakfast. Without asking you first." 

"Oh, is that all?" Felix seems to slump even further, relaxing, and when Carver holds out a hand, he takes it and lets himself be pulled down onto the grass.  

"You're not mad?" 

"I don't think _mad_ is the right word." He steps into Carver's body with a little self-conscious duck of his head; on impulse, Carver loops his arm around his waist and rests his cheek on the top of his head. "I just... I'm sorry. I'm frazzled today." 

"You've been frazzled a lot lately," Carver observes. "I'm sorry if I'm... adding to it." 

"You're not." He sighs, and the exhale of his breath is warm and familiar against his collar. "Tell me about this vacation." 

"Well. If you wanted to, I thought we could leave the day after graduation. Take our time driving up, get there in the evening and just relax. There are lots of nice walks in the area, or we can just meander around town and be tourists. But we don't have to go," he adds hastily. "I can cancel the reservation." 

"Would you get your money back?" 

"Part of it. Probably." Carver's heart sinks a little. He'd been hoping Felix would be excited at the prospect of a long weekend out of town, but his only response seems to be... indifference.  

Felix hums and pulls away a little, not enough to dislodge Carver's arm but enough to put some space between them. "Don't cancel yet. Let me think about it when I'm not so..." He twiddles his fingers in the air. "Not all here." 

"Don't get lost in there," Carver says, tapping the side of his head.  

"I won't." He smiles, and a little bit of the weary cloud that seems to be following him about fades away. "I just need this next week to be over." 

"Come on." He squeezes Felix's waist and releases him. "Let me make you some tea or something. And then we can get back to work." 

"We?" Felix echoes, suspicious.  

"Moral support is very important. I'm told I'm good at it."  

He huffs. "Fine. But I don't want you hovering, it just makes me irritable." 

"Noted." He steers Felix back into the house and leaves him to his work to fuss about the kitchen looking for tea-making detritus.  

He ends up spending more time outside the house than in; Cullen pokes his nose in seeking an extra pair of hands for help in repairing part of the greenhouse, so Carver abandons Felix with a kiss to the forehead—getting a brief grunt of acknowledgement in return—and heads out back. The day is pleasant enough, but inside the greenhouse without a breeze and the sun beating down through the thick panes of glass, they quickly build up a sweat. One after the other their shirts come off, and Carver loses track of time until a rap comes on the open door and Dorian pokes his head in, a slow smirk spreading underneath his mustache.  

"Hel _lo_ there. It's my lucky day." 

"You're welcome," Cullen says drily as Carver blushes and looks down, brushing sawdust from his sweaty chest. "Did you need something? We're just about done." 

"I was just coming to check on you. We've got lavender lemonade on the porch for when you've..." He pauses, eyes wandering leisurely for a moment. "I take it back. No need to clean up first, just come as you are." He drops a wink—to Cullen or Carver he's not quite sure—and disappears again. Cullen clears his throat.  

"Sorry about that. Dorian is..." 

"It's fine," Carver says hastily, though he does grab his shirt and wipe down some of the sweat clinging to him. It's damp and dusty from sitting on a workbench for the past hour, so he doesn't bother putting it on—if he's honest, a part of him is hoping to shake some of Felix's funk by parading around shirtless. He knows he's fit, objectively, but the blatant appreciation from Dorian was a nice pick-me-up. "It doesn't bother you?" 

"Not at all," Cullen says calmly, swiping back his sweaty curls from his forehead. "We all have eyes." 

 _What is_ ** _that_** _supposed to mean?_ Carver wonders, but Cullen has already turned back to their work, unconcerned, so he follows suit and tries not to think too hard about it.  

When they finish a little while later, he toes off his shoes at the door and walks across the grass to where Felix and Dorian are enjoying their lemonade on the back patio, Cullen trailing behind. Felix is also shoeless, and the cuffs of his trousers have been pushed up his calves, leaving his elegant feet stretched out and crossed at the ankles. A weirdly Victorian thing to fixate on, maybe, but Carver has always been appreciative of his bone structure.  

And Felix is obviously appreciative of Carver's.... other structure. His eyes are glued to Carver's chest as he mounts the handful of steps, bending to ruffle Mabs' ears. On the way up Carver nuzzles a brief kiss to Felix's cheek, and he can hear him inhaling sharply as he steps away.  

"All sorted?" Dorian asks blandly, as if he doesn't notice the way Felix's knuckles tighten on his glass.  

"All sorted. The spare glass panes in the basement fit perfectly." Cullen kisses his fiance and pours him and Carver a drink. The glass is icy against his palm, water beading readily on the outside, and he holds it briefly to his forehead before gulping half of it down in one go.  

"Easy," Dorian protests, "that's meant to be savored." 

"Sorry." He shares a grin with Cullen, who pauses mid-gulp with a guilty expression. "It's thirsty work." 

"I can make more." Felix stands up quickly, chair legs scraping across the deck, and he ducks inside without another word. Carver watches him go, eyebrows raised.  

"Was it something I said?" 

"You should probably go after him. Give him a hand." That smirk is still in place, made even more obvious by the curled ends of Dorian's mustache. Carver snorts at the innuendo, but goes, draining his glass on the way.  

The sliding door shuts behind him with a soft sound, leaving him standing quietly in the cool of the house. Felix is bent over with his head in the refrigerator, rummaging  about for something; Carver steps lightly over, bare feet soundless on the hardwood floor, and when Felix straightens up and turns around with an armful of lemons, he squawks and backs up with a _bump_ into the fridge door.  

"Hey there," Carver says, grinning. "Need any help?" 

"Help with what?" Felix asks suspiciously. His eyes stray down to the bare expanse of Carver's chest almost of their own accord, and Carver watches his throat bob with no small degree of satisfaction.  

"Squeezing lemons." He slides one from the top of the pile, perched precariously, and palpates it in front of Felix's face. His eyes nearly cross behind his glasses to watch, and now he's definitely blushing. Carver smirks. "I'm very good at it." 

"You're a tease," Felix accuses, his voice reduced to a quiet rasp.  

"Doesn't have to be teasing." He slips another lemon from his grip, and then another. "C'mon, babe. Let me take a load off." 

Felix blinks very rapidly, so rapidly Carver swears he can hear his lashes shushing against the lenses of his glasses. "There are so many double entendres in that sentence I can't even—mmph!" A kiss cuts him off, a bit rough and abrupt at first but quickly smoothing out into something more practiced. He makes a small, needy sound into Carver's mouth and drops his head back against the fridge. "Goddammit. Just—yes, please, take them, take _me_..." 

Carver laughs, scooping up the lemons as they're foisted off on him and turning to let them tumble across the island in the middle of the kitchen. When he turns back Felix is already there, hands on his stomach and lips moving hungrily to throat and chest and sternum. Carver can't imagine he tastes all that wonderful—like sweat and glue and sawdust, probably—but Felix doesn't seem to mind; his fingers curls possessively into the waistband of his trousers and his teeth sink delicately into one pectoral, leaving behind a faint pink mark when he moves to a nipple. 

"Fee," he whispers, cock thickening in his pants and his hands tugging at Felix's button-down. "Is this really the best... nnghh... place?" 

"They won't bother us." He huffs a laugh against his collarbone, and Carver cups the back of his head to draw him closer. "I think everyone knew what that look on my face meant." 

Carver digs his fingers a little harder into his nape, massaging and drawing a low, aching groan from his chest. "You feeling better, then?" 

"Mmmm. Much. Papers are done, and my boyfriend is shirtless... what more could a man want?" He burrows kisses along the slope of Carver's neck while his hands wander—along his back and chest, sweeping strokes over his belly and down, one brave hand dancing lightly over the front of his shorts and squeezing. Carver pushes his hips forward and grabs him around the waist, pulling him in tight.  

"C'mere, sweetheart. I wanna make you feel good." 

Glassy-eyed and pink in the face, Felix allows himself to be led through the kitchen to a more private nook in the hall. It's dark and cool and silent here—every breath and whisper of cloth seems to rise up and then get swallowed by the dark, antique wallpaper, the satin green fronds surrounding them like a quiet woods. Felix manages to get his shirt open and his trousers around his ankles, and that's as far as he gets before sprawling against the wall, boneless, while Carver sucks on his neck and grinds their bodies together. It's a bit lazy, a bit slow and primal. A fine sheen of sweat rises to his skin again, sliding their bare torsos together, and Felix can't stay entirely quiet. His mouth hangs open, lips shiny and plump from kisses, and he grunts and sighs and whimpers with every movement, vocal in the smallest way.  

Carver's heart is full and anxious to please. He thumbs Felix's nipples with spit-slick fingers, nudges his feet wider apart so he can bend his knees a little and really get close, hips moving with a slow, undulating current. His shorts are open but not off, sliding down his hips with every revolution—his cock stands straight up, poking out of the waistband, and the extra stimulation against the soft, sweat-damp cotton of Felix's briefs is agonizingly good.  

"You're amazing," he whispers into the shell of his ear, teeth draggingly slightly, fingers peeling back the elastic of his pants to squeeze his taut, perfect arse. "Fee, god, I love you. You're perfect." 

Felix gives a soft cry, head tipped back against the wall, and grips his forearm with desperate fingers. "I'm getting close. Baby, please..." 

"Yeah. Fuck, darling, you feel amazing. Ngh. _God_ , yeah..."  

He kisses the scratchy underside of Felix's jaw and rests his forehead there after, watching how every grind rolls their cocks together, dragging their pants back and forth. With one hand he kneads Felix's arse and with the other, pulls down the front of his briefs. Just a little. Just enough that he can see the foreskin moving up over the head and down again, see the bit of slick oozing out, clear and viscous against the dark plummy red of the tip. Hips still working, he rubs the pad of his thumb over the slit and drags down, massaging his frenulum in hypnotic circles; in his ear, Felix sobs and turns his head away as his fingers turn to claws and his stomach muscles tighten imperceptibly.  

"Gorgeous," Carver breathes. He can feel him twitch under his hand. It's the only warning he has—a moment later, Felix cums, spurting a few gobs of thick white onto Carver's belly and hand. He curls his fist around the head and works it back and forth, easing out a few more drops, drawing out the hitched shuddering in his ear until Felix clumsily pushes his hand away.  

"You need to wash," Felix slurs, slumping his entire weight against the wall. His hand on Carver's arm relaxes and he rolls his head back around to look at him through heavy-lidded eyes made dark and moist with orgasm.  

"C'mere, then. The washroom's close."  

Both of them moving on somewhat unsteady feet, though for different reasons, they make their way down the wall to the loo, Carver holding up his shorts with one hand. Felix's movements grow steadier and more sure as he pushes him to sit on the closed lid of the toilet seat and wets a flannel to wipe him down with. Carver sits back and lets it happen, and when the flannel has been rinsed and wrung out and thrown in a basket for washing, Felix goes to his knees.  

"You are," Carver whispers, and the rest is lost, choked back in his throat as Felix bares his cock and swallows down the head. His eyes are closed as if in bliss, one hand bracing himself on Carver's thigh and the other steadying the base of his prick. His tongue massages the underside as he moves up, suckling the head, and back down again nearly halfway—when it looks like he's about to choke, Carver tries to coax him back with a hand to his jaw, but Felix only bats him away and sinks down until he gags.  

"Fee..." 

"I want to," Felix interrupts raggedly, hand moving smoothly now with the layer of saliva coating his prick. He licks the slit, circles the head with his tongue before withdrawing again. "Please. Let me." 

"Fuck." He covers his eyes with one hand, too close to bear the stimulation, and curls his hand loosely around the back of his neck as he sinks down again. This go around is a little easier—he feels himself pressing against the back of his throat, and then Felix swallows, and he's _in_ his throat, his gag reflex squeezing and contracting around him until he's hard pressed not to come. "Fee, Jesus Christ..." 

Felix pulls off again, coughing a bit, and catches his breath. "Push me down," he whispers, eyes averted as if ashamed. "I want you to." 

Carver flexes his fingers against his neck and Felix flushes a dull red, blooming like a rose under pressure. "Are you sure?" He can't deny it's a heady thought, but the fear of hurting him is sobering.  

Felix nods, watching him steadily, and Carver gives in. He squeezes the back of his neck gently and Felix opens his mouth, letting his prick slide in slow, bumping up against the roof of his mouth. Then, conforming to the pressure on his head, he moves down—a brief pause and a cough, and then he gulps, somewhere between a choke and a swallow as he takes him past his gag reflex. And further. He swallows a few times, almost reflexively, face a mottled red, but he looks up at Carver with steady, unwavering eyes, so Carver pushes him down and then suddenly his mouth is stretched wide around the base of his cock and he can _see_ where Felix's throat is distended. Heat rushes over him, prickling; he holds him there another moment or two, rocking his hips just a little to feel the tight, wet slide of his throat around him, and then he lets go. 

Felix slides up, coughing a little—saliva drools from his open mouth and his nostrils flare as he takes in air, still holding the head against his tongue. Still watching. Carver can't quite be sure, since the angle is wrong, but Felix's right hand has disappeared from Carver's prick and is down between his legs, and the idea of him getting hard again, getting off to this, is electrifying. When Felix ducks down again, he doesn't stop him.  

It goes a little easier this time—maybe Felix is more prepared, maybe he's adjusted to the invasion—and Carver lets himself go a little, holds him by the scruff of his neck and fucks his throat. His breath comes harsh in his ears, echoing off the porcelain in the small room, and when Felix groans, gagging and sucking him down at the same time, it's almost more than he can take. The next slow slide out feels like a hand squeezing at his insides, twisting his arousal into bright heat. He gets Felix get a few breaths in and then pushes in, sheathing himself in his throat, down, down until his nose is pressed flat against Carver's pubic bone and the inadvertent working of his esophagus pushes him over the edge.  

He pulls out in time and cums on his face. Felix groans, tongue out, panting as Carver streaks his face with spend and sucking him clean after. When Carver wipes a streak of cum from his cheek, he turns and licks it off his thumb and Carver closes his eyes, overcome.  

"All right, sweetheart?" he whispers when he can think again. "Did I hurt you?" 

"I'm fine," Felix croaks. He laughs a little, wiping semen from his chin, and now Carver can see that he's jerking himself off, sweaty and panting hoarsely like he's just run a race. "Christ, that was hot." 

"Jesus." He sits upright from where he's slumped against the back of the toilet, or tries to, cupping Felix's face in his hands and kissing the mess from his cum-stained mouth. "I had no idea you would be so..." His voice trails off and is subsumed by a soft cry—Felix's eyes fall shut and his face crumples as he stills, dribbling a few drops of semen onto the antique tiles. "Fuck. Darling, you're incredible." 

"I try." He sags forward, gasping for air, and slumps forward into Carver's embrace. "Nngh. I needed that." 

Carver strokes his short hair, torn between guilt and the buzz of orgasm. "Are you sure you're okay? You sound like you've got a head cold, or strep." 

"I'll be fine. Maybe no lemonade for me, though." He hums when Carver strokes his cheek, and smiles, eyes still closed. Obviously content, and yet Carver remembers the way his throat stretched around his cock and is amazed he can still speak.  

"Hot tea," he murmurs. "I'll make you some. After we get you cleaned up." 

"Hmmm." 

Felix seems to be in no hurry to move, so Carver gives him a few minutes to recover, petting him and coming down slow to a more normal speed. Eventually he reaches over for a fresh flannel and wipes Felix's face completely clean, then his own prick, softening and tacky with drying saliva. When they're both somewhat presentable—though there will be no hiding what just happened, considering how long they've been gone and the state of Felix's voice—he wraps an arm around his waist and walks them back through the house to the kitchen.  

The lemons, unsurprisingly, are no longer there, and through the sliding doors he can see Dorian perched in Cullen's lap, fairly chastely, sipping his refilled lemonade from a straw. The pitcher has been replenished, and they seem content without company, so Carver makes Felix tea and watches him drink it like an overprotective mother bird. When he's finished, he tucks himself against Carver's side and sighs happily.  

"I know this is probably a bad time," Carver hedges, "but have you thought any more about going away?" 

Felix giggles against his chest. "A bad time? I think this is the perfect time." 

"Well, you're sort of biased now. Orgasm tends to make you very... agreeable." 

Felix lifts his head, eyebrow cocked. "So I'm disagreeable the rest of the time? Eep!" He starts when Carver gives his arse a gentle pinch. "Yes all right, point." He cranes his neck to plant a kiss on his cheek. "I'm sorry I was a grump earlier, darling. Yes, I would love to go on holiday with you. After graduation. You're coming?" he adds, almost anxiously, as though Carver hasn't promised it a hundred times before.  

"Of course. The whole gang will be there—Mum and Bethy want to come, and Fen might show up if he's feeling sociable enough." He pats his arse this time, soothing. "Is that alright with you?" 

"It's lovely. I'm glad they all want to be there." His eyes darken a little and he looks away, staring off into nothing. "I still don't know what happens after, though." 

"After graduation?" 

A slow nod. "I've toyed with teaching, but I don't know." He huffs a sigh and leans his head against Carver's shoulder. "It's so hard to pick something and follow through." 

"There's no rush," Carver tells him, because he doesn't know what else to say. It seems like the right thing—he's certainly not lacking for money, so the lack of a steady job right away won't be a burden the way it would for most people. But Felix scowls and huffs into his chest.  

"I know, but what am I supposed to do? I don't want to just throw my father's money away without working for it. And grading Dorian's papers is hardly enough to pay the bills on my own." 

"Move in with me," Carver hears himself say. Felix goes very still against him. "Not—it doesn’t have to be forever, not right away. Just for the summer. Get your feet under you. Sort of... test the waters, and figure out what you might want to do." He draws light fingertips up and down the back of his neck, and Felix shivers, softening a little. "Don't decide right now if—" 

"Yes." Felix looks up, mouth twitching into a nervous smile. "Yes, I'd like that very much." 

"Oh. Okay." His heart seems to expand inside his chest, and he wraps his arms impulsively around Felix's slender waist. "Good." 

"Good." Grinning like a fool, Felix pulls him down with a hand in his hair to kiss him softly. Their tongues flirt briefly, then with intent—Felix sucks his lower lip into his mouth and hums when Carver slides his hands up his shirt to stroke his back. "I love you," he says against his lips.  

"Mmmm. Love you, too." Another kiss, shallower this time, as Carver draws lazy spirals across his sacrum with his fingertips.  

Voices lift in laughter outside, and they separate with a little start. They smile ruefully at one another. "I guess we should make ourselves scarce," Felix says, smoothing a hand over Carver’s bare chest one more time. “I promised Dad I’d visit him at the office after the papers were done; did you want to come?” 

“Sure. I, um… do I look presentable?” 

Felix stepped back to eye him up and down, chewing vaguely on his lower lip. “Ummmm… a shirt might help.” 

“Oh. Right. Er… stop off at my place first?” 

“All right.” He pats his chest gently. “I’ll just go tell Dor and Cullen that we’re on our way out.” 

Carver watches him go, wincing inwardly at the ribbing Felix will no doubt receive for his own state of disarray—not only the quality of his voice, but the red marks peppering his neck and the slight smears on his glasses from their frantic kisses. But there’s no burst of laughter or teasing, and when Felix returns, delicately closing the door behind him, he looks none the worse for wear. He _is_ carrying Carver’s shirt in one hand, a sad, dirt-smeared thing that Carver quickly recovers with a grimace of apology. But Felix just smiles and shakes his head, plucking at his own collar.  

“Perhaps I could borrow a scarf while we’re at yours?” 

“On a day like today? Erm. Maybe. Yeah.” He touches one mark softly, delighting in the way Felix’s eyes flutter closed. “I might have something that will work.” 

/// 

He doesn’t have anything that works. Felix spends half an hour fretting in loo, buttoning and rebuttoning his collar in an attempt to hide the marks Carver left behind. Carver changes in about five minutes, and spends the rest of the time sitting on the end of the bed and calling apologies through the cracked-open door to the washroom, which Felix continues to deflect even as he mutters to himself in dismay. In the end he decides there’s nothing for it, and pops the top two buttons in defiance, declaring he dares his father to say something out loud about the pinkish-purple bruise peeking from the top of his collar.  

And, as if in defiance of _him_ , Gereon doesn’t even seem to notice. He serves them both tea quite contentedly in his office, going on and on about his reduced workload and how restless he is; but Carver notices the clever gleam in his eye, and how frequently he looks at his son to make sure the information is sinking in, and he realizes that this is Gereon’s way of _soothing_ Felix, of saying, _Look at how little work I’m doing, how I’m taking it easy._  

And, bizarrely, it seems to work. Felix becomes less and less tightly wound over the next hour or so, and Carver in turn relaxes too, silently relieved that Gereon appears blithely unconcerned with the state of his son. When their visit starts to wind to a close, however, Felix ramps up his anxiety again when he sits forward on the stiff leather couch, clears his throat, and says, “Dad, I’m moving in with Carver.” 

Carver freezes like a bug trapped under a microscope as Gereon’s eyes turn to him. “Is that so?” 

“Not necessarily permanently,” Felix is quick to add, reaching over to squeeze Carver’s hand where it lies paralyzed on his knee. He doesn’t even look over at him, but the gentle touch unwinds his spine a little. “Just for the summer, currently. I don’t want to be dependent on you while I don’t even have a steady source of income.” 

Gereon’s pale eyes turn to Carver. “Forgive me, but this does feel a little… sudden.” 

“It was a bit of an impulse offer,” he admits calmly. “But I feel good about it. There’s an end date, and it will give Felix time to breathe and figure out his career track without feeling like he’s relying on you too much.” 

“I see.” He doesn’t look _upset_ , necessarily, but he seems to be somewhat in shock, looking between them like he hasn’t really seen them before. “I suppose it _was_ high time the nest grew empty.” 

“Oh, Dad.” Felix stands abruptly, throwing Carver a little off balance, and he’s even more unbalanced when he sees the slight glimmer of tears in Gereon’s eyes. Felix goes to him, sitting at his desk chair turned out to face them, and Carver looks away as he props his hip against the desk and speaks in a low voice to his father. “You aren’t losing me. I’m still going to be in London, most of the time. You’ll probably see more of me now, anyway, since I’m going to insist on biweekly lunches. Or something. You’ll just have a little more money in your pocket every month from not having to pay my rent.” 

“I haven’t been—pressuring you?” Gereon asks, equally soft. Carver feels a bit like a voyeur, but they could have asked him to leave, so he stays where he is and tries to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. “I don’t _mind_ paying your rent, Felix, you’ve been working so hard at your schooling and I know you have a bright future ahead of you. And you’re my son. I hardly notice the money, truly.” 

“I know, Dad. But _I_ do. I just… need to be a little more self-sufficient. I have enough saved from TA’ing for Dorian to split the summer rent, and after that… well, I’ll figure it out.” There’s a brief pause. “All right? You’re not offended?” 

“Goodness, no. I suppose I knew this would be coming eventually, just… for it to be now…” He sighs and pats Felix’s hand. “I’m proud of you, _abni_. You do know that, yes?” 

“Yes, _alab_. I know.” 

A delicate sniff or two, and Felix returns to the couch, a bit pink around the eyelids but smiling. “Nothing concrete is decided yet, anyway, Carver only just brought it up today. So.” 

“There’s graduation yet to have, anyway. And a little holiday.” Carver nudges him with his elbow, smiling. “Plenty of time.” 

“Well. I’m happy for you.” Gereon looks directly at him again, but less like a scientist perusing an interesting specimen and more like a father looking at his son. It takes Carver aback, and he feels his breath catch in his chest as Gereon says, calmly and directly, "You'll have to forgive me—it's always difficult for a father to watch his son spread his wings and leave. But if he has to leave, I'm pleased and proud that it's going to be with you." 

No hinted threat, no other shoe to drop, just that. Carver blinks and dips his chin. "Thank you, sir." 

"Just Gereon," Gereon reminds him. "I won't ask you to call me _Dad_ —forgive me, but one headstrong child is enough for me." 

Carver's answering laughter cracks down the middle, but Felix and Gereon are good enough not to mention it.  

///

Graduation day dawns grey and drizzling, of course. Carver wakes to about ten texts from Felix, all in varying shades of worry, and he fires off an answering _there's more than enough room inside to celebrate if need be, love. Dorian and I will take care of everything, don't worry._  

Dorian had had grand plans for dinner. Mia Rutherford was doing the food, or most of it, and Carver and Dorian had butted heads all the afternoon before setting up the backyard for the party: stringing lights, setting up seating and preparing blankets and a small tent for the open-air picnic Dorian had decided on. As promised, he texts Dorian next with a _Plan B for dinner?_  

 _The weather prognosis is good. Holding off for now_ , comes the answer as he rolls out of the shower and finger-combs his beard, debating on trimming or not. He's starting to look a bit like a wildman, saved from that fate only by dint of his hair, the only part of his "look" that he's careful to maintain with a barbershop visit every six weeks punctually. He knows he's never going to achieve the sleek, chic gay aesthetic that Felix has perfected, but at least his hair looks good, longer and just shy of curly on top and shaved close on the sides in a way that Bethany pronounced _very stylish, baby brother, I'm proud of you._  

Eventually he determines the beard to be acceptable, with a little oil and shaping, and he dresses neatly in slacks and a short sleeve button-down that Felix had bought him "just because." He was interested to note that the tag had been cut out, and he decided it was best for all of them if he didn't ask how much it had cost. And then, with a quick cuppa on the way out, it's off to the races.  

Bethy and his mum pick him up right on schedule, waving farewell to Merrill, still sleepy-eyed and yawning and promising to join them at the Pavus-Rutherford estate later for the festivities. Beth is very pretty in a floral print dress and lipstick so pink it's nearly blinding—she coos with approval at his "look," and he teases her about her makeup, and Leandra sighs longsufferingly from the driver's seat as if she isn't pleased as punch to have her two children healthy and happy and bickering without heat behind her.  

He honestly doesn't pay much attention to the ceremony. It makes him feel like a bit of a dullard, surrounded by all these brilliant minds; he flips back and forth through the program and doodles in the blank parts until the mathematics division finally calls roll. Felix is the second to be called, and he walks across the stage with his head held high and a beaming smile shining out across the auditorium like a beacon. All of Carver's simmering self-consciousness melts away and he finds himself grinning, too, even though Felix can't possibly see him as he shakes hands with his mentor and President de Fer and accepts his diploma. 

He means to be subtle and refined, but he can't help it—over the polite applause suffusing the place, he stands up and whoops, clapping boisterously. Bethy joins in, of course, and Cullen also gives a standing ovation; from the small collection of department heads at the front, Carver can see Dorian applauding a little more energetically than the others. Felix ducks his head, blushing but pleased, and gives a little nod and a wave before snaking his way back to his seat.  

Afterward, everything is a sea of graduate robes and families in their Sunday best. Carver feels claustrophobic almost immediately, so he succumbs to the pressure and escapes outside where the crowd is somewhat less, Bethany and his mother following arm-in-arm at a more sedate pace. The earlier drizzle has subsided, leaving behind pale grey clouds that glow with diffuse sunlight, silvery with innocence, and he hopes they stay that way.  

Arms around his back take him by surprise—under cheap vinyl robes and nervous sweat he can smell Felix, warm and cinnamon-vanilla, and he turns and scoops him up like he weighs nothing, swinging him around in a jubilant circle. In spite of the attention they've attracted, he kisses him as soon as he's back on his feet, arms snug around his body and heart hammering with leftover surprise.  

"I'm so glad you came," Felix says against his mouth.  

"Were you afraid I wouldn't?" 

"No—just, it was nice to have you there. Here." He throws back his head and laughs, giddy in the aftermath of the solemn ceremony. "I could hear you cheering for me, you and Beth. That was sweet of you." 

"I tried to be a gentleman, but I couldn't resist." He thumbs the short bristle on his cheek, then down to his chin, following the curve of his smiling mouth. "Congratulations, Fee. You're done." 

"I can't believe it." He laughs again, and buries his face in Carver's shirt. "I mean, I submitted my thesis ages ago, but now—now it's published, and I don't ever have to go to Doctor E's dusty, smelly office ever again." 

Carver kisses the top of his head and nudges him back a little. "Your Dad's here, and Dorian. I'm sure they'll want to congratulate you, too." 

"Right." A bit breathless, Felix looks up at him with a dazed smile. "I'll be right back." 

It turns out there are quite a few people wanting to offer their congratulations—Lilavati, for one, and her old married lesbian neighbors who apparently babysat Felix as a child, and the entire Rutherford clan, and a hundred or so professors and fellow students that Carver has never met before. He lets himself fade into the background, and eventually receives the signal from Dorian to go and start setting things up.  

By the time he gets to Dorian and Cullen's house, the clouds have well dissipated and the grass is a slightly damp, sprawling green lawn quickly warming in the sun. He loosens his collar and gets to work, plugging in the strung-up lights and putting out lawn equipment while Beth gets underfoot in the kitchen and his mother "directs" from the patio.  

Slowly other people start to trickle in—the Rutherfords, all of them curly and tow-headed and smiling, Fen and Anders and Merrill, the Amels. There's so many people, and Carver is so busy rushing around doing Dorian’s bidding to make sure everything is perfect, that somewhere in the middle of everything Felix arrives and he doesn't even notice, not until he happens to glance outside in the midst of mixing more spiked lemonade and sees him caught up in a small group of Cullen's nieces and nephews. He's out of his cap and gown, wearing cropped dark jeans and a crisp shirt printed with daisies—Carver's hand slows in the midst of stirring and he just watches, a little smirk playing around his mouth as Felix is chivvied into picking up a tiny cornsilk-haired girl with a skinned knee and bestowing kisses.  

The sliding door opening catches his eye and he watches Dorian step in, a bit ragged around the edges but smiling gamely beneath his drooping mustache. “We're toasting in a moment, Hawke, better get out there. And take the lemonade with you.” 

“Aye aye,” he says, quickly shaking in a few extra splashes of gin.  

Outside the sun is dazzling against the water. He shields his eyes and navigates the fringes of the crowd to put it on the drinks table—over the hubbub he can hear Dorian announcing a toast, and there's a mad rush for everyone to fill their glasses, so much so that he gets a bit lost and finds himself standing at the back when Dorian drags Felix up onto the patio to be fawned over. He doesn't mind, truly—this is Felix’s day, and Carver was never much for being in the limelight anyway, even tangentially. But as Felix stands there, blushing with sun and holding his wine close to his chest, he looks a bit… lost. His eyes scan the crowd and his smile is distracted, belied by the very slight wrinkle in between his brows that Carver can easily identify at a hundred paces.  

 _Who is he looking for?_  

Just as the thought crosses his mind, Felix's eyes land on him and he lights up like a sunrise. He whispers something to Dorian under the scattered, laughing calls for a speech, and placates the crowd with a wave of his glass. "Thank you everyone for coming. I really appreciate it. All of you have supported me one way or another over the years, and I wouldn't be standing here today if it weren't for you. I won't bore you with a list of names, but there's someone in particular who isn't standing up here with me who definitely should be."  

Carver feels a pang of dread and he glances around. Gereon is already on the patio behind his son, and so is Dorian—his mother is somewhere, he thinks, but Felix isn't looking at her. He's looking at _him_. Goddammit.  

"Carver, come here, stop hiding in the back."  

With a sigh of resignation, he ducks through the crowd, feeling as big and red as a brick house. But Felix is smiling at him when he gets up next to him, and the tight squeeze of his hand makes the embarrassment worth it.  

"Carver has been an encouragement to me almost since we met, and he's part of the reason I'm standing here today. I won't subject him to any more scrutiny, but I just wanted to say before all of you that he's the love of my life and I'm incredibly lucky to have him in it." 

There's a boisterous round of applause, but it's drowned out by the kiss Felix gives him, firm and unmistakable with his fist curled in the front of Carver's shirt. When he's released Felix rocks up to whisper in his ear, "Sorry for singling you out." 

"I don't mind," he says into his hairline. "Just don't make a habit of it." 

"Deal." 

The next hour is a bit of a blur. Carver agreeably allows himself to be paraded around the yard talking to all and sundry, hanging off Felix's arm like a trophy—considering the _actual_  trophy sitting in a place of pride in Dorian's kitchen, declaring Felix the proud recipient of his second doctorate degree, he's quite happy to fill the role.  

Predictably, however, Felix eventually starts to flag, and he deftly secretes them into the greenhouse away from prying eyes. Carver is expecting to be jumped, but instead Felix sags against him and groans, "When can we go home?" 

Carver snickers and holds him close. "Another hour or so, I think. Perhaps Dorian will let us slip away early." 

He sighs. "No, I shouldn't. He worked so hard to put this together—both of you did, didn't you? I saw you on the sidelines, running thither and yon to make sure everything was going as it should." He rocks up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "All right, I'll socialize for a little while longer." 

"I'll be right here," Carver says staunchly, even though he's had more than enough socialization with strangers in the last day to last a lifetime. "C'mon, before you're missed." 

"Can I have a kiss first?" He pouts very prettily, lashes fluttering, and Carver snorts.  

"You don't even have to ask, beautiful." He leans down and fits their mouths together, cradling his jaw in one hand and his waist with the other. "Just think," he whispers, parting briefly before coming back to kiss the bridge of his nose, "Soon we can go back to my—to _our_  apartment, and everything will be unpacked and sorted," a kiss to his brow and a brief prayer of thanks to Merrill and Bethany for sorting out _that_  complication earlier today, "and tomorrow we're off for a long weekend of relaxation." 

"Mmmmm. I can't wait." He detangles his hand from Carver's shirt and smooths the fabric with an apologetic grimace. "Thank you for organizing everything. I _hate_  packing and unpacking." 

"I know. But this one's on me. You'll just have to put together your toiletries and things for the trip, that's all."  

"You're so good to me." When Carver doesn't answer save for a gentle touch to the back of his hand, Felix rests his head on his chest for a moment or two. Carver can feel the soft _shush_  of his lashes when his eyes close as if centering himself—when he pulls back, his face is set with determination and he no longer looks quite so drained. "All right. Let's do this. And then, home." 

He still looks delighted at being able to say it. Carver, for his part, is delighted to hear it. He gives his hand a squeeze and leads them back into the fray.  

///

"God, I'm exhausted." Felix falls face-first into the couch with a soft _whump_ , leaving Carver to cart all his post-graduation gifts to the table. "Do we _have_ to leave tomorrow?" 

"We don't _have_ to. But it would cut our weekend in half." He toes off his shoes and leaves them in the kitchen before padding to the couch, leaning over the back and dragging his fingers down Felix's spine. "Would you prefer to sleep in?" 

"Mmh. Just a little. I know you've worked hard to plan this." With a bit of a struggle, he sits up, patting the cushion beside him. "C'mere, don't be a stranger." 

Carver huffs and comes around the end of the couch to flop down beside him. "Are you happy it's over?" 

"Today? Yes. It was wonderful, but... I'm tired of being looked at." He laughs and buries his face in the front of Carver's shirt. "You know what I mean." 

"I do." He pets the hair curling stubbornly at his nape. "You deserve to be admired, Fee." 

"Yours is the only opinion I care about. Well, and Dad's." He sits upright, nose adorably wrinkled, and Carver can't help but lean in to kiss him. But when he draws away after, Felix’s eyes have drifted and a wrinkle is starting to form between his brows. “Hang on. Is that…” He stands and goes to the bookshelf standing against the far wall. “Is that my thesis? My _theses_?” He pulls the two volumes off the shelf and holds them apart as if he can't believe his eyes. “There's a bookmark in this one.” He spins, pinning Carver with an almost accusatory eye. “Carv, have you been reading this?” 

Carver shrugs, embarrassed at being caught out. “Trying. I don't understand most of it, but I'm giving it a go.” 

Felix grins suddenly and flies across the room, jumping into his lap and kissing him in such a hurry their lips slide right past one another and into empty space. “You are fantastic,” Felix declares, seeming not to care. He flips to the bookmark, which is currently buried in a data chart from the excavation in Greece. It was the part he felt most able to digest, if only through nostalgia. “What do you think?” 

“I mean… I'm not really smart, or good with this kind of stuff, but it's… interesting.”  

“Don't say that,” Felix says sternly. “You're brilliant with your hands—oh, shut up, I don't mean like _that._ But yes, that way too. And there's more to life than book smarts. Between the two of us, who's the one with the steady job?” 

“There's more to life than working, too,” Carver reminds him gently.  

"Hmm. Like what?" 

"Like... sex." He surprises a squeak out of Felix with a hand to his arse, and giggles. "Laughing. Good food. Um. Walks in the rain..." 

"Shut up." 

"Kissing. _Kissing_ in the rain." 

"You've been watching too many romcoms, darling."  

"Pet names. Pets. Lazy days in." He pulls Felix down to his level and kisses him. "I love your brilliant mind. And I'm so proud of you." 

Felix's nose wrinkles up in pleasure and embarrassment, and he hides his face in another kiss. "And I love your brilliant hands. And you. So we're even." He pulls Carver's hand off his arse and kisses the rough, scarred palm. "Come to bed, we've an early start tomorrow." He clambers off his lap and stretches with a drawn-out groan, the hem of his shirt lifting just enough to bare a sliver of skin. Then he turns, already working open the buttons, and heads for the bedroom, hips swaying in a way that draw Carver's eyes like magnets. He pushes up from the couch and follows.  


	27. 27.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's loved and supported this fic with your comments and art and friendship!! It means the world to me. <3

Contrary to expectations, Felix finds himself awake around six in the morning, burrowed under the covers while Carver sprawls on top of the duvet and snores very, very quietly into the pillow. He's on his stomach, arms under his pillow and one leg thrown over Felix's muffled form, and there's a lock of dark hair that flutters with every whuffling breath. Felix smiles and stretches, and feels whole.  

He manages to extricate himself from bed without waking his boyfriend, and in the washroom he relieves himself and hops in the shower to wash away the yesterday that still clings stickily to his skin. When he's finished, towel wrapped around his waist and more completely awake, he steals a dab or two of Carver's beard oil to anoint his own short, neatly-groomed facial hair, and the familiar aroma is like Carver is standing right behind him with his hands on his waist, grumbly and scruffy and all his.  

Back in the bedroom, Carver has rolled onto his back and is now firmly in the center of the mattress, still snoring. Felix drops the towel the climbs onto the bed on all fours, kissing Carver's tummy and chest and shoulder as he goes. By the time he reaches his mouth, Carver is blinking awake, a bemused smile on his face and his eyes just slightly open. Felix kisses his mouth very softly.  

"Morning." 

"Mmmmorning." He rubs at his eyes and wraps an arm around Felix, dragging him down to lay on top of him. Felix laughs, face smushed into one meaty pectoral, and feels him shake beneath him like an earthquake in response. "Y'r up early." 

"I guess old habits die hard. I can't sleep in to save my life." 

"Mm. Did you sleep well at least?" 

"Very."  

Carver suddenly seems to realize that Felix isn't wearing a stitch of clothing. His arm tightens, then moves, hand exploring south to cover one arse cheek. "Um." 

Felix giggles. "Yes?" 

"You, um." He squeezes lightly, then moves to the other side and squeezes _there_ as if double-checking. "You're naked." 

"Yes, love. I just had a shower." 

"Hmm." He gropes him a bit more, lazily, as if deep in thought. "Do you think we have time to, uh." 

Felix sniggers. "Yes, I think we have time to _uh_." He pecks him on the cheek. "But go brush your teeth first, please. Then I'm all yours." 

It's almost comical how fast Carver rolls out from under him and out of bed. Felix giggles, watching him go, and tugs a little on the erection that's starting to form between his legs. From the open bathroom door come the sounds of Carver scrubbing vigorously at his teeth, then running water and a few hisses as he freshens up without waiting for it to get warm. When he comes back he's also pantsless, half-hard and bobbing against his thigh as he crawls up Felix's body and kisses him soundly. He tastes like mint, with a little bit of foam still trapped in the corner of his mouth; Felix licks it clean and grunts when Carver scoops his hand under his arse and lifts him closer.  

Carver is clumsy so early in the morning, his kisses graceless and his hands fumbling as they stroke his skin and hold his body, but Felix doesn't mind, because he’s clumsy, too. Warm and sedate, he wraps his arms around Carver's neck and holds on as they rut together, as Carver grips their cocks in one hand and blunders hot, smearing kisses to his neck and shoulders. When Felix notices he's trying to be careful about marking him, he coils his fingers in his hair and whispers, "It's okay. Bite me, if you want, I don't care if anyone sees." 

Carver whimpers and his teeth sink in slightly, scraping high along his neck. Felix smiles and arches back, lets the sharp sting carry him forward into bliss.  

Minutes or hours later, they collapse in a sweaty, sticky heap, and for once Felix doesn't feel the immediate need to wipe himself down. Carver moves first—he stumbles out of bed and retrieves the damp towel Felix had dropped on the floor earlier, coming back to clean Felix's belly and then his own. Then he pitches it in the general direction of the dirty laundry and lowers himself slowly to the edge of the mattress with a yawn. 

"That didn't really help me to wake up." 

"Sorry," Felix murmurs, not sorry at all. He strokes the creamy stretch of Carver's flank, admiring the muscle, the way the skin folds at the crease of his hip. "How can I make it up to you?"  

"Mmmmm. Pack my stuff for me." At Felix's look of horror, he bursts into laughter. "Just teasing, sweetheart." He leans down and gives him a kiss. "Make coffee, and I'll get our stuff together." 

It's an acceptable compromise. Felix presides over the coffee pot in pants and one of Carver's too-big flannel shirts—he's feeling whimsical, so he digs out a pretty red set of tea-things, including a sugar bowl (which he fills) and a little pitcher for cream. He sets everything out on a tray and makes a rack of toast, adding pots of butter and preserves for effect.  

When Carver comes out he takes in the scene and a strange expression comes over his face. Suddenly self-conscious, Felix hides his fingers in the over-long sleeves and asks, "Too much?" 

"No... no." He shakes his head and comes close, snagging him by the elbow and drawing him in. "I'm just... I knew I was doing the right thing, asking you to move in, but. I guess it's nice to have it confirmed." 

Felix grins and squeezes him, breathing him in. "Good. I'm glad. Now c'mon, before the toast gets cold." 

They eat breakfast on the couch with the early morning sunlight streaming in and their knees bumping companionably. Afterward, Felix manages to distract him from clean-up with kisses that taste like raspberry preserve—between that and the impromptu morning sex, they don't leave the apartment until well after nine, but neither of them are in any particular hurry. Felix feels indubitably free, untethered as a balloon, in a way he hasn't in ages. He insists they drive with the windows down and he lets his arm hang out in the breeze while Carver drives with one hand and keeps the other on his knee.  

Half an hour down the road it starts to rain and they're forced to roll the windows up, but Felix doesn't care. He watches the black storm clouds roll in behind them and sweep over the countryside in a dark deluge, and when it's over the air smells fresh and wet and clean. He falls asleep on Carver's shoulder with the breeze in his face and Carver humming something familiar under his breath.  

He blinks awake when the car stops. Disoriented, the world fades into view in desaturated, rainswept tones: the gray ocean over the bluff, the dusty green grass with its flecks of heather, the pearlescent sky scudded with clouds. Felix rolls his neck to dispel the ache and sits up. "Where are we?" 

"I thought we'd take a quick detour. I hope that's okay." Carver looks... a bit nervous, actually. Felix slips his hand into his and watches him relax incrementally. "It's not too far out of our way, and I haven't visited in a while." 

"Visited who?" 

Carver swallows, and Felix hears the _snick_ of his seatbelt unclicking. "My dad." 

Carver climbs out of the car first, and Felix follows a little more slowly, still hazy from his short nap. They've parked on the side of a dirt road, more of a farm track than anything—Carver hikes up the shallow hill with Felix coming behind, and when they reach the top the entire ocean is spread out below their feet, frothy as it booms against the rocky shoreline. Against the pale sky, Carver is a broad silhouette, hands in his pockets and his head bowed as he stands at the top of the hill. Felix hovers a fair distance away, not wanting to interrupt; but after a moment or two, Carver turns and offers his hand. When he takes it, his touch is firm and steady, and Felix lets himself be pulled in against his side.  

"I wish," Carver begins, and stops. "I wish he could have met you." He huffs, tightens his arm around Felix's shoulders. "I can just see the two of you talking about all kinds of obscure things over coffee while the rest of us lag lightyears behind." 

For once, Felix is at a loss for words. His parents' divorce was... something. But in spite of their separation, he can go visit either of them whenever he pleases. This windy hilltop, with the long grass flattened by the rain and the constant rush of the sea, is as close as Carver can get to his father. His chest twists and he loops his arm more firmly around Carver's waist.  

"Sorry," Carver says after a while. "I didn't mean to... co-opt our..." 

"Don't. It's—I'm glad you brought me here. I'm... honored." Carver has a picture of his family tucked away on a bookshelf in his room, from back when they were children—Felix sees it vaguely in his mind's eye, sees the bearded grin on Malcolm's face, sees the same blue eyes, faded with time, that he sees in Carver every day. "I wish I could have met him, too." 

They stand together in silence for a few more minutes, Felix feeling progressively less like an intruder on an intensely private moment. Eventually, Carver takes in a deep breath and lets it out, and turns to smile faintly at him. "Well. Shall we press on?" 

"Whenever you're ready." 

Contemplative, Carver lifts a hand and cups the side of his face, drawing him in for a kiss. It's chaste, soft, with the wind flicking Carver's hair against his temple and the taste of salt on both their lips. When they part, it's mutual, no grasping fingers or desperation. Carver half-smiles and steps away.  

"I'm ready." 

///

They arrive at the bed and breakfast in the early evening. Felix climbs out of the car and immediately lifts his arms to the sky in a slow, graceful stretch, every muscle and tendon gently extended the way Fenris taught him. It feels good after so long in the car, and when he drops his arms he lets out a long sigh and turns to look at Carver. Carver is looking back.  

He's been quiet, mostly, on the drive—the stop at his father's grave had put him in an introspective mood—but his face, called taciturn by some, is a wealth of emotion that Felix is still learning to read. His expression now is a little bit inscrutable, but his eyes are soft and blue in the dwindling daylight, and when Felix smiles at him from over the hood of the car, Carver returns it.  

"Admiring the view?" 

"Of course. I always admire you." He ducks into the boot to get their bags and backs out again with his hair all a-scuffle and his freckles smothered in red. "C'mon, let's go check in." 

Felix leads the way and opens the door for him, since Carver refuses to let him take any of the bags. The place is beautiful—a sprawling old manor house with low ceilings and dark wood paneling everywhere, the windows all narrow and some of them criss-crossed in the Tudor style even though it feels much older. The eclectic décor—a blend of modern, antique, and positively _ancient_ —reminds Felix a bit of Dorian and Cullen's place.  

Their hostess, Elthina, is a pinch-mouthed churchy type, with a rosary swinging from her formidable bosom, but she gives them no trouble and leads them on a winding path through the house to their suite. Felix takes one step inside and immediately has to resist the urge to clap his hands in childish glee. Carver has booked them a tower room, generous and round, with curving modern windows that look out over the tidily-kept back gardens and smallish lake that abuts the encroaching forest. The floor feels like the original sturdy oak planking under his feet, but it's hard to tell with all the Persian rugs strewn about, and the wallpaper climbing up to the domed ceiling is craqueleured cream with gilt-edged green vines reaching skyward. Even the bed, stained so dark it's nearly ebony, is whimsical in a sharp-edged way, with little carved scenes on the head and footboards and the canopy, likely a piece original to the house.  

"Please, enjoy your stay," Elthina says, before whisking away discreetly to answer the faint chime of a bell from some distant part of the house.  

Carver lets down his burdens and clears his throat a little awkwardly, one hand going unerringly to the back of his neck. "So, er. What do you think?" 

"It's _gorgeous_ ," Felix finally allows himself to say, the words bursting out of him like a crumbling dam. "This bed, and this _view_ —and the books!" And a fireplace, too, he notes—small and also probably original to the house, but with a great hefty mantle topped generously with candles and fresh greenery. To either side are bookshelves built into the wall, packed with old books, their spines all gilded and reflecting the light of the sun as it fades behind the hills. "Carver, god, this place must have cost a fortune!" 

"I've been saving," Carver says, looking a little bit uncomfortable, so Felix drops the subject.  

"Come here," he says instead, dragging him to the window. They're tall and narrow, curved with the shape of the tower wall, and being fairly new they open without much trouble, cranking outward to let in the smell of dewfall and fresh-turned earth from the gardens below. Felix grabs Carver's hand and holds on tight even as he hangs half outside the window, breathing in deep. "It's like a fairy tale." 

There's a bit of a pause, and then Carver murmurs, "Yeah, that was the idea." 

"Really?"  

When he pulls back, Carver is avoiding his gaze, looking instead out the window at the lavender sky. "Yeah. I wanted to... spoil you a bit, I guess." 

"This is more than a _bit_ ," Felix murmurs, and hopes he doesn't sound chastising. To smooth the rough edges of his incredulity, he leans against him and rests his hands on Carver's shoulders... chest. Somewhere in between. "I love it. I love _you_." 

That pulls his clerestory eyes back to him. The faint anxiety in them fades, and Carver smiles, a flash of boyish glee sparking to life. "I love you, Fee. More than I know how to say. Thus... this." 

Felix cups his face in both hands, a bit twisted up inside. "Darling man. I don't need grand gestures, you know. I mean, yes, this is _amazing_ , but it's only amazing because _you're_ here with me. For, um, future reference." 

"Noted." He's still smiling, eyes all crinkled up around the corners. Felix uses his current grip on him to pull him down just a little, closing the gap between them.  

A part of him wants to kiss Carver forever, but the majority of him is clamoring for food and possibly a walk around the grounds, which look amazingly well-cared-for and inviting. They've missed the full dinner served to all the guests currently in residence, but Elthina is happy to put together a little basket for them—cheese, sausages, fried tomatoes, and a loaf of fresh bread fresh from the clay oven down in the not-quite-modern kitchen. She wraps it in several cloth napkins, but Felix can still feel the warmth of it bleeding through when he unwraps it a little while later, out in the gathering dusk by the lake.  

It's... peaceful. Felix doesn’t feel the urge to fill the silence like he sometimes does, and they sit together as they eat quietly. And when their bellies are full, their restless feet take them wandering all over the grounds. There's plenty of rambling wildflowers everywhere, and hedgerows nearly as high as his chest, and the paths are well-groomed and lined with rocks. Along the lake are flat shale stones that invite  Felix's curious footsteps—eventually he leaves Carver behind and goes down to the edge of the water to dip his toes in and look for tadpoles in the gloaming.  

He finds a few pretty pebbles and shimmering, semi-translucent shell snails, but he leaves them behind, feeling a bit like an intruder in this fairy-world. When a shout catches his attention from across the water, he stands to see Carver greeting a shaggy sheepdog that has appeared out of the gardens, collared and tongue lolling happily.  

A bit sticky from his adventuring, Felix stands and lets the breeze coming down out of the wooded hills ruffle the loose edges of his tank, lifting the damp material away from his body. He looks down at his dirty feet. The cuffs of his jeans are rolled up a few inches and his toes are buried in the soft, dark earth near the water's edge. He smiles and wriggles his toes, feeling a bit wild and rebellious with the dusk falling heavy on his shoulders and the fairytale enchantment of this place sinking into his bones.  

There's a burst of scattered giggles, and when he looks over Carver is engaged in combat with the strange dog—it has dragged a massive stick out of the water and is tugging ferociously at one end while Carver clings to the other, laughing uproariously. At last he gives the dog the slack, and it trots a few paces away with the branch hanging lopsided from its mouth before it drops it and begins to nose about for a good chewing place. Sensing he's been dismissed, Carver gives his hands a cursory wipe on his jeans and turns, spotting Felix. His waning smile splits wide again and he makes his way along the lakeshore to meet him.  

"Hello," he says almost shyly, wiping his soiled hands on the front of his shirt. Felix takes his wrist and lifts the back of it to his mouth for a kiss.  

"Sir knight." 

"Oh, is that what I am?" Carver laughs. "What does that make you? My fair lady?" He pulls Felix into his arms and nuzzles into the side of his neck. 

"Ugh, stop, I'm all sweaty." 

“I like it,” Carver mumbles, and the feel of his grin is sharp with teeth against Felix's throat. In spite of himself, he tips his head back a little. Just a touch. Carver kisses the dewy, sweat-salt skin softly and Felix sighs into the balmy spring air.   

“I love you.”   

“Hmm, what a happy coincidence.” Carver's hands find his back pockets and Felix squeaks faintly in surprise. “I rather love you, too.”   

Felix drapes his arms about Carver's broad shoulders and presses up on his toes for a proper kiss. Carver obliges, lips parting to welcome Felix's tongue inside, and his dirty, calloused hands slip up beneath his shirt to stroke a hypnotizing path up and down his spine. God help him, it's electrifying. Felix arches forward with a little gasp that Carver swallows and he knots his fingers in the back of Carver's shirt to press him closer.   

He's dizzy with lack of oxygen when Carver finally pulls away with a delicious wet sound. His eyes are a swollen storm-cloud blue, heavy-lidded as he brushes a damp kiss to Felix's brow. "I take it back." 

"Take what back?" Felix rasps, confused.  

"You are... a wild thing. A nymph, is that what they're called?" He cups the side of his face, thumb rubbing soft against the bristle of his beard. "My beautiful Felix." 

"What's gotten into you?" Felix asks, not accusatory, just baffled by this unexpectedly soft, whimsical side of Carver that he's never seen before.  

"You have, I s'pose." His smiles turns sharp and wicked. "D'you want to make it official?" 

"Stop," he chastises, but he has to smother his laughter into Carver's chest. "Who was your friend?" 

"The dog? Dunno, I guess he belongs to Elthina. The webpage said something about there being domestic animals around. I'm sure there's cats, too, if you wanted to go looking." 

Felix glares at him. "If that's a remark on my name..." 

"What? You like cats, don't you?" 

"Yes," he admits reluctantly, squinting. Carver's expression is suspiciously flat and innocent. "Tease." 

"Hmm. Guilty as charged." He wraps his arms around his waist and lifts him up a few inches, provoking an embarrassing squeak. "D'you want to relocate? It's getting dark." 

"Is that your way of asking me to fuck you?" 

"Jesus," Carver laughs, startled by his bluntness. "I mean, I won't say no. After a shower, maybe. Or a bath—there's supposed to be a huge clawfoot tub in the adjoining bathroom." He turns his head and sniffs discreetly at himself. "Yeah, that needs to happen." 

Felix snickers and drags him in close with a finger hooked into his collar, eyes trailing down from the gleaming hollow of Carver's throat to the sweat dappling his shirt at the center of his chest. "I like you just the way you are. But maybe a little freshening up wouldn't go amiss. For the housekeeper's sake, if nothing else." 

Thus agreed, they return hand-in-hand to their picnic spot and gather all the detritus to take back to the kitchen. Felix doesn't particularly feel like putting his shoes back on, so he wipes his feet neatly in the grass and tiptoes into the house behind Carver. Thankfully they don't meet anyone on the way, and when they make it to their tower room he drops his shoes by the door and flings his arms around Carver's neck to be kissed.  

"Eager," Carver mumbles against his mouth, but he has no room to point fingers—his hands are already up under Felix's shirt and his tongue between his lips as he half-walks him half-carries him to the bed. Felix lets himself fall backward onto the mattress, legs hanging off and spread wide so Carver can bend over him and rubs his open palm at the juncture of his thighs while they kiss. His blood is running hot, and he's still sweating; when Carver pulls his shirt up to kiss his belly he wriggles out of it all the way and shoves his fingers into Carver's hair ungently. Carver groans, and he feels the delicate sting of teeth biting down over the soft bit of his belly.  

"Lower. Please."  

His jeans come undone and he lifts his hips up from the mattress as best he can without much leverage. Carver goes to his knees, and it's the easiest thing in the world to brace his feet on Carver's shoulders. There's a brush of coarse beard against his inner thigh and he tenses. "I, um. I showered this morning, but..." 

"Fee. It's fine." Another kiss, vague and shivery on the thin, tender skin. "Are _you_ fine?" 

He's never done this before. But he's not nervous for it—he's nervous that Carver might not enjoy himself. "As long as you are." 

"I am. Promise." He winks one bright blue eye, and drops his head.  

For a moment there's nothing, then hot breath and a soft, wet tongue stroking between his cheeks. Felix's belly tights and he grips the sheets in lieu of Carver's hair, staring up at the dark wooden canopy overhead. It's squirmy and strange, at first—Carver's very tentative and delicate, giving him time, advancing and retreating again to give him a feel for the rhythm. He licks broadly along his perineum and noses his balls, sucks each one into his mouth before sinking down again, and this time his thumbs press him open and his tongue curls right over his hole, a little swirling motion that seems to echo itself just beneath his navel.  

"Carv..." 

"Mmhmm?" The syllables reverberate through him and he feels his hole clench tight in response. "Good?" 

"Yeah. Weird, but... keep going." 

Carver kisses the crease of his thigh, eyes glittering with amusement and approval, and redoubles his efforts. His tongue moves more directly, swirling and probing, and Felix shudders, rocking into his mouth as he feels himself opening up to the attention. When Carver presses his pinky finger in discreetly, he hardly notices until he finds his prostate and prompts a cry of surprise and arousal.  

" _Carv_. Carver, Jesus, you are..." 

Carver parts from him with a wet smack, lips as red as cherries and smiling mischievously. "You like that?" 

"It's... yes. We should... do that more often." He regards him from over the bare stretch of his body, dewy and flushed now, his prick leaking a little dab of wetness onto his belly. "But, um... forgive me, I know this is terribly hypocritical, but..." 

Carver laughs and sits back, kissing his knee as he goes. "I won't ask you to kiss me like this. That's fair. It _was_ my idea." He leans back in and kisses a hipbone, then stands, reaching down shamelessly to adjust himself in his jeans. His hand lingers, playing with himself a bit through the thick fabric, and Felix's skin prickles. "I'll just go brush my teeth." 

"I'll run the bath," Felix says, suddenly remembering what it was they were doing. His cock bobs every which way as he scrambles off the mattress, and he bends to pull on his pants again. "Temporary," he says when Carver pouts, and laughs. "Go. So I can kiss you." 

Carver makes a beeline for the washroom, and Felix follows more slowly. His arse feels a bit wet, which is strange, but thoughts of the delightful bath they're about to take banishes his discomfort.  

The room itself is small, with a ceiling that slants sharply toward the little stained-glass window at the end, but there's enough room for a toilet, a marble sink, and a long claw foot tub tucked in at the end. Carver is already at the sink with his toothbrush in his mouth; Felix gives his arse a pinch on the way to the tub, grinning at the rumbling protest he gets in response and bending over to switch on the taps.  

“It’ll take a minute,” he says over the sudden rush of water, testing the temperature with his fingers before pulling away. He straightens up and lets out a _meep_ of surprise to feel Carver’s warm body standing flush to his. Carver chuckles and spreads his hands out along Felix’s back, bending to mouth kisses to his nape. A wave of sensation prickles through him and he shudders.  

“That’s all right. I can think of a few ways to pass the time.” 

An image arises in Felix’s mind, fully-formed, of him on his knees and Carver’s prick jammed halfway down his throat. He wonders quite suddenly what the reverse would be like. “So can I,” he rasps. It’s almost lost to the rush of water bubbling and brewing against the porcelain, but Carver is near enough, and his fingers tighten on his hips with promise.  

“Oh yeah? Like what?” 

“I want you…” He pauses to consider his wording. “I want you to do what I ask.” 

There’s a little eddy of cooler air between them as Carver steps back, but his hands don’t leave his hips so Felix doesn’t turn around. “Like what?” 

“Like, um.” He steps back on purpose, bumping into him gently—Carver’s grip steadies him, and he turns, craning his neck to be heard. “Take your shirt of.” 

“Oh, is that all? That’s easy.” He lets go and Felix turns so quickly he nearly pitches sideways into the beautiful black marble sink. “Careful, sweetheart…” 

“Wait.” Felix puts a hand on his chest, stopping the upward crawl of his tee. “Slow.” 

“ _Oh_.” 

There’s a little self-conscious pout to the shape of his lips as Carver eases one hand up under his shirt, palm against his own skin. The fabric rucks in slow ripples, like a pebble in a still pond; first his navel is exposed, with a fine dusting of hair pointing straight down into the waistband of his jeans, then the sharp grooves of his hips and up his flat belly. He’s got a few freckles scattered here and there—beauty marks, really—and Felix watches his diaphragm flex and deflate in abject fascination.  

“You’re like a statue,” he whispers, reaching out to touch but not quite making contact. Carver’s abdomen quivers in response, but he doesn’t speak. “Continue.” 

Then he does make a noise, a little breathy inhale given voice. He turns pink almost immediately and plucks at the strained hem, working it side to side around his ribs one-handed until both pectorals are exposed.  

“Hold.” Felix touches this time, alighting his fingertips very carefully in the center of his lightly-furred chest. Then the other hand, in the same way, until he can spread out his hands and grip the meat of each muscle, rub the nipples until he can hear Carver’s ragged breath even over the roar of the water. His eyes are heavy-lidded and he watches Felix intently as he slowly pinches and plucks, and finally leans forward to suck one into his mouth.  

"Fucking hell." He squirms a little, hissing when Felix nibbles very gently, and he finally relents. Carver sags back against the side of the tub with a sigh.  

Felix pushes at the fabric bunched around his chest, and Carver takes the hint, pulling his shirt the rest of the way off.  His hands fall to his sides and clench into slight fists, his weight shifting awkwardly on the tile—the front of his jeans is definitely distended, and Felix's mouth waters. "Unzip," he says—he means it to sound commanding, but it comes out more like the plea of a man starving for water after days in the desert.  

The buzz of the zip being pulled is lost under the sound of water filling the tub. When Carver's hands move out of the way, the plackets sit wide open on his hips and his pants have been pulled down under his bollocks to display his cock. Felix's mouth waters at the sight of it. Carver chuckles.  

"I know that look," he says quietly, and when he reaches out and cups Felix's chin it's all he can do not to drop to his knees right there. Carver's thumb nudges the corner of his mouth and he lets his lips part, tongue wet and heavy against his palate. "What do you want?" 

He can't remember what they'd been planning—his arse is still a little wet and his cock is throbbing in his pants, and he wants Carver so desperately he can scarcely think. "Um." His eyes dart down to Carver's prick and back up again. "I... bath?" 

"Mm, that's right. And after?" His hand gentles, sliding around to the back of his neck to draw Felix in against his chest.  

"I..." 

"Hey, it's all right. We can figure it out." He reaches down and squeezes Felix's arse with one enormous hand. "Check the water, sweetheart?" 

Blindly Felix feels for the edge of the tub and bends over, feeling the temperature. He fumbles for the taps and switches them off, and when silence falls he stays braced against the edge, arching his spine. A moment later, as he had hoped, broad hands slide up his back and he can feel the pendulous weight of Carver's prick brushing against his arse through his pants. He leans back into the contact with a sigh, and a warm kiss is pressed to his nape.  

"Hey there," Carver murmurs. His hands massage Felix's ribcage, and somehow the rhythm of it coaxes his hips back and forth the slightest bit, rubbing Felix ever so slightly against his crotch. Felix leans back harder and lets his head drop between his arms with a soft gasp, hips rolling in a slow grind. “Nghh.” The sound breathes out against Felix's ear and an electric shock courses down his spine. “Fee…”   

Looking down, Felix can see the heavy weight of his erection in his heather-grey briefs, marked at the tip with a spot of wetness. His lips part soundlessly and his next slide backward is edged with an extra kick that has Carver digging his fingers into his hips with purpose. He fumbles back and grabs one of his hands, and Carver takes the hint—he reaches around and finds Felix hard and aching, and even erect Carver’s hand is large enough to cup the entire length of him. He massages him through the thin fabric and Felix bites back a groan. _Fuck,_ Carver knows what he’s doing. His strokes are short and circular, thumb teasing unerringly at his frenulum, and Felix can feel the precum being milked out of him with each relentless pull. And behind, fitting just slightly between the cheeks of his arse, Carver’s cock grinds rhythmically against him and his breath wafts hotly against the back of his neck.   

Carver's nose draws a line across his shoulder as he nudges and eases his way forward, fingers plucking at the waistband. "Can I take these off?" 

Felix nods, head hanging low between his shoulders. He can feel Carver's fingers, thick and gentle, peeling the elastic away and down—the weight of his body shifts away, and a warm mouth smudges kisses down his back and arse as he helps Felix step out of them. When his feet are planted firmly on the tile, Carver cups one arse cheek and squeezes.  

"Put your hands on the wall for me?" 

It's a bit of a stretch, but he leans out over the tub and braces his palms on the wall without much trouble. Spine extended and his body exposed, he shivers a little, watching his cock hang plump and rosy-tipped over the steaming water. He's still a little bit soft from Carver's mouth, earlier; when a pair of slick fingers trail down to massage his hole, his body accepts them readily and a deep pang of arousal squeezes at his insides at the slow thrust of Carver's hand.  

He doesn't realize he's groaning until Carver mutters an unintelligible curse and reaches around to stroke him off with his free hand. The dual stimulation is like a spear to the gut. He's not sure which way to move, forward or back—pinned by his precarious balance and the skill of Carver's hands, he gnaws on his lower lip and trembles on the precipice.  

"More," he whispers, begs, panting so loudly the entire room is filled with the sound of it. "Please, Carv." 

"Do you wanna cum?" Carver asks raggedly. His thumb and forefinger are a perfect ring around the head of his cock, short quick strokes right at the rim of his foreskin, and inside the pads of his fingers have found his prostate and are making slow, firm circles right where he needs it most. "D'you wanna cum, Fee? Ask me nicely." 

Felix cries out, arms trembling and nails turning inward against the tiled wall, and he doesn't even have enough time to say _please_ —Carver pulls his orgasm out of him like an artist, fingers pressed deep and his hand cupped just so to catch his spend.  

When the aftershocks begin to subside, Carver slides his fingers out of him and loops his arm around Felix's body, supporting him as he begins to slump forward. A quick, rough kiss is pressed to the side of his head and a low, "Get in the tub," whispered into his ear. Blindly, moving on instinct, Felix climbs into the water and lets it swallow him while Carver washes his hands at the sink.  

Felix's eyes fall closed and he drift for a moment or two. He comes back to himself with a soft touch on his cheek—when he opens his eyes, it's just in time for a kiss pressed delicately to his forehead, like the touch of paper-thin petals pressed between the pages of an old book.  

"You're beautiful," Carver whispers.  

"Come here. Please. Let me..." He reaches up, trailing hot, wet fingers down the comparative chill of Carver's chest. It's pale and smooth, like marble, but his nipples are still stiff and rosy and his cock still stands at precise attention when Felix knocks his wrist against it. Carver's eyelids fall to half mast. But... 

“Tub’s a little full, I think.” 

Felix huffs in protest, but it _is_ a little overfull, or will be once Carver climbs in—so Felix sits back and waits, perhaps pouting a little, while Carver busies himself with draining it and adjusting the temperature and adding a dash of sweet-smelling salts. Then he tugs out of the rest of his clothes, belt buckle clinking as his jeans pool on the floor, and climbs in—ungainly, all limbs, but with a strange coltish grace that Felix finds endearing. The water level rises alarmingly as he settle, then subsides, Carver nestled in against Felix’s chest and Felix’s arms draped about his shoulders and moving slightly as if in a subtle current. Felix tips his head back against the rim of the tub with a hum of satisfaction and wriggles further down until the water kisses his chin.   

“Comfy?” Carver asks, voice a rumble against his sternum.   

“Mmhmm.”   

Then tub is impressively roomy for such an old fixture, and they slot together comfortably with all the important bits underwater. Speaking of which. Felix lets his hands trail down Carver’s body to stroke his hip, made silky-smooth by the water. Carver exhales and shifts, and Felix’s palm finds the head of his prick.  

"What would you like?" 

Carver turns his head and nibbles very slightly on his collarbone. "I'd like you to get the soap." 

Felix stills his hand. "Are you..." He doesn't know quite how to end that sentence, but Carver assuages his uncertainty by taking hold of his submerged hand and bringing it to his lips. 

"I'm fine. I'm not—I'm not in a hurry. I would rather just wash up and go to bed and see where that takes us. Is that all right?" 

"Of course it is. I just, I feel like I should do something for you." He drags wet fingers through Carver's hair, dampening the dark waves back from his forehead. "You've been very attentive this evening." 

Carver sits up, setting the water to slapping back and forth against the sides of the tub, and flashes a cheeky smile over one shoulder. "You can wash my back." 

"Oh, have it your way. Pass me the soap." 

In spite of his words, Felix finds a great deal of fulfillment in the task. The soap provided by the inn is handmade, something pale and packed with oatmeal and the rich, lathery smell of vanilla. He works it first into Carver's back, massaging even as he soaps, and Carver obligingly twists and folds himself to allow him to wash his arms and hair. He can't reach his legs, so Carver takes care of that himself, but eventually the soap is returned to him and Felix reaches around his torso to wash between his legs. The soapy friction of his palm against Carver's prick is slow and nearly hypnotizing—he rests his cheek against the erratic rise and fall of his back and listens to his breathing until Carver bats his hands away. 

Then it's Felix's turn. Carver kneels facing him and returns the favor with a slightly more delicate touch, smoothing down his chest and paying special attention to the dip of his navel and the curl of his toes. When he giggles and jerks his feet away, Carver grins and relents, and pulls the plug.  

They pat dry separately and move about the room for fresh pants and assorted post-bath toiletries, and when Felix goes to plug in his phone to charge overnight he finds a text waiting.  

 _I know you're on holiday, but I wanted to write this down before all the other details swamp me. Cullen and I have_ _decided to have one "best man" each at the wedding to stand up with us in lieu of fathers, and I'd like it very much if you'd be mine. -_ _Dor_  

Felix stares at the message for a long while, it seems, his chest sort of tight and achy but not in the way it gets when he's short of breath or on the verge of an asthma attack. There's a little pain there, knowing that Dorian's family won't be making an appearance to one of the most special, meaningful moments of his life, but mostly it's amazement and delight, and a little bittersweet reminiscence. They've come a long way—from late night conversations on the phone full of vitriol and helpless rage, to more than one long, lonely drive in the dark to break Dorian out of his parent's house, to this. Best man. He smiles and types out _I wouldn't have it any other way. Fee._  

Hands on his waist startle him, and he drops his phone onto the bedspread with the screen facedown. "What are you looking at? We're supposed to be on _holiday_ ," Carver teases, rumbling with laughter against the nape of his neck. Felix reaches back and pulls his arms around him all the way, leaning into his solid weight.  

"D'you think you'll ever want to get married?" 

Carver goes still but not tense, chin coming to rest on Felix's shoulder. "That's a rather sudden question." 

"I didn't mean—" He cuts himself off, blushing, because what if he _did_  mean it that way? "I just, in general. Dorian texted about wedding plans, so I was just... wondering." It's a lame finish, but Carver doesn't poke fun. Instead his arms unwind and he sits on the edge of the bed, wearing just a pair of black briefs and a serious expression.  

"I guess so, yeah. Have you?" 

Felix shrugs one shoulder, letting his hip lean up against the mattress and his fingers trail from freckle to freckle across Carver's pale chest. “I hadn't ever given it much thought before. It would have to be the right person, I suppose.” There's a particularly lovely mole off-center of his sternum, just to the left—Felix pets the soft skin with his forefinger, heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears. “So, you know, Carver Hawke or nothing.” 

Carver's hand alights in his hair with the slightest quiver. “That's a pretty specific requirement.” 

“I've never been the type to settle.” He reaches down to where Carver's other hand hovers over his thigh and takes it, holding it firmly between his own. He can't quite bring himself to meet his eyes, but it's something. “What about you? Thinking of making an honest man out of someone?” 

Carver grunts. “Don't be coy, Alexius. You know the answer to that.” He tugs Felix's head around gently, and his eyes, when they meet, are very blue. "If I'm ever marrying anyone it's going to be you." 

Felix squeezes his hand and rests their foreheads together, throat too tight to speak.  

"And I don't—I don't have a ring, or a plan, and really we're just getting started, but... I'll be very put out if you end up marrying anyone else." 

He swallows hard. "Noted."  

Carver's eyes crinkle up and he scrubs his fingers through Felix's short, wiry hair. "Don't look so frightened, this isn't a proposal. This is just... testing the waters." 

"Do I look frightened? I was thinking more... elated." 

"Well, good. You ought to be." 

Felix snorts and steps flush to the edge of the mattress, letting Carver's knees unfold to either side as they kiss softly, chaste and shallow. One of Carver's hands falls to rub slow circles on his sacrum, right above the waistband of his smalls, and the other disappears—when Felix breaks the kiss just long enough to look down, he finds it gripping the inside of Carver's own thigh, right beside the half-hard bulge in his pants returning to full mast.  

He kisses him again, firmer now and open-mouthed, tongues flirting but not quite meeting, and Felix reaches down to rub his knuckles against the gusset of Carver's briefs. Palm turning upward, he feels out the weighty shape of his bollocks, the root of his cock. "I think you should take these off," he mumbles, the words slurred against Carver's lips, and Carver nibbles back in retaliation. 

"Only if you take yours off, too." 

"Deal." 

He skins out of his pants in record time, bending over to peel them off and kick them to the side. When he stands up, Carver is still struggling out of his—after a moment or two of ungainly flailing, he pitches them across the room and drags Felix onto the bed, laughing, by his hips.  

He doesn't think he can get it up again so soon, not enough to really do anything with, but he's too in love with the feeling of Carver's skin against his to care. They kiss some more, endlessly it seems, and Carver ruts gently against his thigh as their hands wander leisurely, stroking this collarbone or that spine. Even though Felix is still mostly soft, his blood is running hot beneath his skin—he feels flushed and a little dizzy, a little breathless, laughing when Carver skims kisses down his ribs and tangling his fingers in his dark, wet hair.  

When Carver's kisses start to grow short and desperate, and his hands too restless, Felix presses him onto his back and takes him in hand. Their lube has migrated to the bedside stand thanks to Carver's foresight, and he takes a good dollop into his palm to ease the slide. A low moan escapes him before his teeth sink down into his lower lip, and his brow furrows as he watches Felix through half-lidded eyes turned midnight blue in the dim light.  

"Gorgeous," Felix whispers, feeling as if he's speaking a prayer. It's hard to tell, but he thinks Carver might be blushing. He takes a little more lube, still pumping him steadily with his off hand, and with his right he slicks the inside of his thighs, all the way into the crease of his arse while Carver looks on, breath coming faster and rougher in his chest. 

When he's finished, he rolls off and lies on his belly, ankles interlocked to press his thighs together. Carver follows, wordless, his hands giving voice to his need as they wander Felix's body. When he straddles Felix's thighs, his weight is grounding, hot and necessary—when he folds down, mouth to his shoulder and hands finding Felix's beneath the pillow to interlace their fingers, he feels surrounded, protected, safe. And when Carver pushes into the narrow, slick space between his thighs, it's not a pale shadow of being fucked as he had imagined, but a different, sweeter thing, impossibly intimate. Carver is not usually very loud during sex, but this position puts his mouth right against Felix's ear and he can hear every miniscule breath and slip of noise. To _hear_  Carver fall apart instead of _see_  it is... well. It's very nearly almost as good.  

"Fuck," Carver says suddenly, and very, very quietly. He whispers it into the back of his neck, into his hair, over and over again as his hips drive Felix deeper into the mattress—and then, abruptly, his weight disappears, and when Felix cranes back to look over his shoulder it's to see Carver's body bowed taut on knees and elbows, face contorted as his cock jerks and spits white spools of cum across his arse and lower back. The wet heat of it hits him a moment later and he buries his face in the pillow, smiling as Carver slumps, half on the mattress and half on top of him and panting like a racehorse.  

"D'you," Carver starts, and stop again, hand just barely palming the back of one cum-spattered thigh. "D'you mind if I—sorry, this is..." 

"It's okay." Felix turns his head on the pillow to look at him. "I want you to." 

He's convinced those are the four most magical words in the universe. As soon as he speaks them, Carver's eyelids flutter and a fresh wash of red blooms on his face. Felix wriggles a little lower on the mattress, spreading his thighs, and Carver's breath stutters in his chest as he trails his fingers through his mess, massaging it into his skin, rubbing the blade of his hand between his arse cheeks and over his twitching hole.  

"Beautiful," Carver mumbles. Then, apparently embarrassed, he rolls out of bed and blunders to the washroom for a flannel. When he returns he wipes Felix clean and then pats him dry with a fresh towel before flinging both to the floor and scooping him into his arms for a loose, half-awake kiss. "Love you," he says afterward, scritching lightly at the neatly trimmed stubble on his cheek. Felix noses into the contact like a cat and hums when Carver follows along, scraping his short, blunt nails against the grain of his hair. "D'you need anything? Want anything?" 

Felix feels like laughing, but he keeps it contained, bubbly and joyful between his ribs. "I have everything I need or want right here, love. There's nothing else I could possibly add to the list." 

"Oh." He blinks, eyes blue and baffled, and Felix can't help but drop a kiss between them. "Well. That's all right then." 

Felix is inclined to agree—everything is perfectly all right.  


End file.
